Tag: thefrenchdiaries

Categories
The French Diaries!

The French Diaries: Part 5 “Lizbef finds a home!”

We met with Edouard’s brother and Nici at their apartment. I instantly felt incredibly welcomed by them both, sitting down, eating saucisson, drinking beers and exchanging stories until we were laughing. It was such an amazing feeling just knowing that we were starting somewhere.

We wasted no time, making appointments for the very next day. We arranged to see three apartments, one at 3pm, one at 4:30pm and another at 7pm. The first was an old apartment in the centre of Marseille, ten minutes away from Nici and Jeremy, the second was one that we had spotted whilst in Paris, just outside of the city about 30 mins away. The third was five minutes away from where Nici and Jeremy lived. 

We drove to the first one, excited and dressed nicer than normal. 

“You look like a lady, Lizzy!” Edouard said with a grin.

I straightened my dress self-consciously. “I want him to think I can pay my bills.”

We parked the car and walked down an old street. The buildings towered above us, the streets buzzing with life. People were buying bread from the bakery, meat from the butcher and drinking wine outside of cafés. It felt like how every city should feel. Alive and enjoying the small things. 

I loved every inch of this street already.

But I knew this apartment was old and needed a lot of work. I had lived in old apartments before and I wanted to be cautious. To be smart. I didn’t want to get too excited.

But I think it was too late.

Edouard and I had made an agreement before we even started looking at apartments. 

“I don’t want somewhere furnished,” he said. “I literally want to move in with just a mattress and find everything else on the streets, build things and upcycle. We don’t have to buy new things.”

This was refreshing for me. “Yeah, all right!”

He looked at me strangely. “You are ok with that?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

It made sense to me. I had always wanted this sort of challenge and here I was! I loved being creative and it only seemed right to give this a go rather than spending all of our money in Ikea.

I think it was a relief for Edouard to be free to do that. I wanted to encourage the things he wanted to do, not try and chain him down and make him do things that he didn’t enjoy doing. I wanted this to be different for us. I wanted us to be free.

We parked the car and walked to the number of the apartment. We stopped at a very tall, old and dark building with huge wooden doors before us.

I wondered what it would have looked like a hundred years ago and the people who once lived inside. My thoughts were jolted as the owner came and greeted us.

An older gentleman, he fumbled with a huge set of keys to find the right one to open the door. I struggled with finding the right words to say to him. I scanned my brain for the French dialogue I had learned so far.

Say something smart, Elizabeth, I told myself. Say something so he thinks you are cultured!

But all I could do was smile, nod and say, ‘Merci’ as he opened the door.

The door was ridiculously heavy, creaking open finally to reveal a tall set of winding stairs. The paint was flaking onto the ground and it looked like a plaster and repair job had been started but not completed.

Or had even got halfway for that matter.

The tiles were the original terracotta tiles from when the building had been built, gently sloping towards the middle where people had walked over them so many times. My hand clutched the metal banister arching upwards, the ironwork curling in intricate patterns, original to the building, beautiful even in its decay.

I looked up and saw the staircase continue to spiral up and up and up until I could finally spot the light from above. Darkness surrounded us as the old man shuffled forwards, the huge set of keys jingling in his hands. Eventually he stopped at a pair of blue flaking double doors.

Unlocking three locks, he walked in, exposing three doors in the blackness. He pulled out another set of keys and started undoing the locks to the furthest door on the right.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Until, he finally opened the door.

I walked in, the scent of dust and must filling my nostrils. High ceilings stretched above my head as I walked down a narrow corridor towards a kitchen. The old man tottered towards the huge French windows to open the shutters and at last, light streamed in.

The apartment seemed to sigh in relief as he unbolted all of the windows. The view beyond was the rooftop of the workshop next to us, the sky opening up before us. I don’t know why, but I was disappointed with the view at first, seeing nothing but tiles and dirt.

But the space was huge. A huge lounge spanned out before us, big enough to do cartwheels in. There was a separate toilet and bathroom intact with a miniature bathtub with a little seat inside. The bathroom was painted a bright yellow and red, the colour scheme leaking into the kitchen with all of the old cupboards painted the same sickly stain of scarlet.

The old man and Edouard talked together in French and I was free as a ghost to walk around. I suppose that’s the beauty of not being able to speak the language. Or a curse. You are like a ghost. You can come and go as you please, wandering around as no one really takes notice of what you are doing. 

I felt something in this apartment. It was a decayed sensation of loneliness. Like it had fallen asleep. Like a beautiful woman who had been left by her lover and had fallen into a slumber over years and years. I imagined what this apartment would have looked like a hundred years ago. The tall ceilings, the huge windows, the ancient sink in the bathroom. I thought of the people that had once gazed out of these windows, who had stood where I was now standing.

The glory of what it had once been.

I glanced at the discarded bra lying across the tiles and turned back around to gaze at the two small posters hiding small holes in the walls for the electrics.

This place needed some tender loving care, that was for sure.

The old man explained to us that the three apartments on this level back in the day had been one. I had guessed this by viewing the toilet and bathroom, probably added in the 70’s, finding a cupboard in the kitchen above the facilities with a huge cavernous space within.

“He says maybe we can have a second bedroom in this cupboard,” Edouard laughed to me.

It was a gigantic space, big enough to put a double bed in.

“If we have this place that is exactly what we’re doing,” I threatened him.

But it was perfect for us. The old man seemed surprised at the growing excitement in our faces as we talked about the different possibilities.

“We can put the bed here!”

“Yes- and I can have my writing desk here!”

“I can build something along here-”

“Yeah, you should do that!”

It was the first apartment we had seen and already we wanted it.

“This feels right,” Edouard said as we left the apartment, promising to call the old man later that night. 

But we still had two more apartments to see. We drove straight away to the second one in the suburbs of Marseille. This had been the apartment we had seen on the internet back in Paris. But my excitement to view the place was non-existent. I kept thinking of the high ceilings and the tall windows of the first apartment.

The landlady met us outside the one story apartment. She was clean cut, attractive and efficient as she went through a huge amount of paperwork to see if we could actually afford the place. 

I walked through the rooms and shook my head, knowing deep in my heart that I was not supposed to be here. This was meant for another couple.

Not us.

It was clean, white and meant for people who wanted a big tv and a sofa from Ikea. The cupboards were made out of cheap wood, the rooms were small and there just didn’t seem to be any soul in the building.

I caught my reflection in the mirror of the bathroom and raised an eyebrow at myself. I wasn’t even sure what I looked like. With my tattooed arm, freshly washed hair, pristine blue dress and ancient flip flops, I didn’t even recognise myself. I had been living in shorts and a t shirt with no make up so long that I had forgotten what it was like to look like a civilian.

I felt uncomfortable for some reason. That I wasn’t myself. 

But I knew that would come. I had to settle in, adjust and find my way.

I carried on walking around when the woman started talking in long monologues. I felt bad wasting her time as she spoke with Edouard for about an hour in the stifling heat as I wished for there to be some way I could communicate we should leave immediately. I didn’t want to waste another second.

But we waited it out as the woman demanded to see copies of our passports, our bank statements, our job contracts and everything else that required a signature.

We tried to be polite, talking with the landlady and escaped as soon as we could back into the Marseille sun.

“I think we both know what we’re supposed to do,” I said to Edouard in the car.

“I know,” Edouard said. “And it’s the first apartment!”

Returning to Jeremy and Nici’s apartment, we sat down with a beer and excitedly told the about the old apartment.

“But you’ve still got one more to see, haven’t you?” Nici asked us.

We had, but the guy wasn’t answering our phone calls and I didn’t want to view it anyway.

“Call the old man instead,” I said to Edouard. He grinned at me and picked up his phone.

“You want that apartment?”

It needed a lot of work. And a lot of love. Not to mention it had been the first apartment we had seen. 

But I wasn’t scared.

The flat was in an amazing location and was incredibly cheap- probably because it needed to be completely repainted and it looked like no one had lived in it for years.

But I wanted to start this life. I had been without a home for so long, wandering the world and calling someone else’s bed my own, using someone else’s bathroom, eating in someone else’s kitchen. I wanted my own nest.

I wanted to lay my own foundations.

“Call him.”

The old man was overjoyed to hear that we wanted the place, excitedly agreeing to meet us the next day for another view and to do the paperwork.

I couldn’t stop grinning as Edouard got off the phone, holding him tightly.

“We did it!” I crowed. “We have a home!”

And there it was. Within one day of being in Marseille we had our first apartment.

I had found my place at last.

Categories
The French Diaries!

The French Diaries: Part 2 “An Adventure in Paris!”

The days pass and I’m in a bit of a dream world. 

My world has become a little surreal of late. A lot has happened since I first landed in Paris those four weeks ago. 

The next few days was spent learning about the French culture and getting to know Edouard’s parents, Christine and Pascal better.

It was difficult communicating with anyone at first because even though I had studied French for a few weeks on Delos, learning on an app on my phone and speaking with the people was completely different.

It had been a long time since I had met anyone’s parents before as well. What would they think of me? Would Edouard regret having me here? Would I take up too much space?

Living on Delos, I had learned pretty quickly how to share my living area with a lot of people. It came with its challenges and for the most part I enjoyed having everyone constantly there. But how would Edouard cope?

It became pretty evident that I had no need to worry. Edouard shared pretty much everything with me, his space, his food and spent all day every day with me, disappearing for an hour or so to play basketball with his friends.

His parents were incredibly welcoming, hugging me every morning and kissing both of my cheeks whenever I said hello to them. I was so eager to try and speak with them, that we started an exercise book where Edouard would teach me key words to use in sentences. His mother enjoyed joining in, and I would sometimes be able to teach her English words like, “hedgehog!”

It was a wonderful first week.

On my first day, he took me to a farm where they had vending machines for cheese.

“You are joking, right?” I said, staring at him as we got out of the car. We were still in the green countryside of his village, within the stone walls of a very old but beautiful farm and out buildings. I wondered what it would have been like in this place a hundred years ago, seeing people buy their bread fresh from the bakery, going about their days and walking exactly where I was walking now.

“No, I told you Elizabeth, this is how we do things here,” he laughed at me as he excitedly walked to the machine.

It seemed ingenious to me. You bought directly from the farmer fresh cheese whenever you wanted, at any time of any hour without needing to disturb anyone. 

I watched excitedly as he bought two packs of goat’s cheese to go with our bottle of red wine and fresh bread bought from the bakery.

“I want to take you somewhere special,” Edouard said as we got back into the car.

And by God he did. We spent the rest of the late afternoon and night sat outside a castle, surrounded by woodland in front of a lake. I stared at our surroundings with an open mouth, disbelieving this was how my time here was going. How could it get any better?

Edouard popped the cork of the wine with a grin.

We ate our feast of bread and cheese on a blanket, exchanging our adventures and how we felt with “du vin” in our hands.

It seems pointless sometimes to explain how happy I am right now. I feel absolutely complete and happy in the direction of my life. I could never have thought a year ago this would happen. It makes me want to go back in time and say to the Elizabeth then, “keep going! It’s going to be all right!”

I had missed the European countryside. This was the land I knew. The land I had been brought up with. I recognised the plants, the animals and the scents around me. 

I felt utterly and completely relaxed.

The next few days were bliss, spent exploring the countryside and meeting the rest of his family. After taking me to the viewpoint on top of a hill, we stood to take in the view of Paris, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, leaning over the fence as if by that way I would be able to see it better.

“You’ve never seen it?” Edouard asked me, bewildered.

“No!”

“But you told me you’ve been to Paris before?”

“I said I went to Disneyland Paris in the 90’s-”

Edouard immediately got onto his phone with a sound of disgust. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m taking you to Paris tomorrow.”

A flash of delight ran through me. Edouard is not built for the city. He isn’t made for it, avoiding the place whenever possible. He’s created for the hills, the ocean and the woodlands. He can build a house, start a fire and find food, but to cope with the cosmopolitan lifestyle and hustle bustle of a large city like Paris? And here he was, insisting that he was going to take me.

“You cannot say you have been to Paris before if you’ve been to Disneyland. That doesn’t count.” 

I shrugged, unable to disagree with him.

After messaging his friends for a meet up in the city to meet his, “petite anglais” we sat on the bench and ate bread, saucisson and more cheese.

I had been away from cities for so long I didn’t know how I would be in a place like Paris. But I was excited after hoping for so long. I would actually walk through the city herself- with Edouard. So the next day, I pulled out of my newly arrived baggage (it turned up eventually and was delivered) the best thing I had. A black dress with purple flowers adorning it, by my England standards it was a pretty boring dress. But I had nothing else and wanted to wear something other than gym shorts and baggy t shirts around Edouard for once.

Showering, doing my hair and wearing makeup, I stepped out of the bathroom with a, “viola!”

Edouard blinked in surprise. “Wow!” he laughed. “You are a lady today!”

I felt strange wearing a dress- unprepared almost. When I was a little girl, I always liked to wear shorts under the dresses my mother made me wear in case a wizard would ask me to go on an adventure. Even now I still feel like I’m waiting for Gandalf to tell me they destroyed the wrong ring and they need my help.

So we went to the train station and skipped the barrier to avoid paying for a ticket. On the way into Paris, we used one ticket to squeeze us both out of the check out barrier, my heart pumping as though I had never done something, “naughty” before.

We stepped out of the train station, hand in hand as I gazed at the stone jungle around me.

“Whoa…” I breathed.

It was everything I could have ever hoped it would be. Buses and people went past, the noises drumming in and out of my ears as people talked loudly to one another in French. 

The buildings that surrounded us were the typical French styled buildings, pale stone with dark blue slate roofs. The statues were carved with love, staring down at us between their protection of pillars and temple style forefronts of buildings.

I held onto Edouard’s hand tighter as the city passed us by and we stepped into the heart itself. Taking me to the cathedral, we looked down over the city where I could see the Eiffel tower and Notre Dame, waiting for me to explore.

But the tourists were buzzing around us in a thick swarm, their camera phones constantly in their hands as they took pictures of this and that, themselves with this, themselves with that, their backs to the beautiful architecture as they uploaded everything onto Instagram.

I wanted them to put down their phones and truly take in this moment, right here right now.

Don’t you realise you’re here? I wanted to say to them. Don’t you realise you are in the very capital of everything that represents love and romance right now?

Edouard and I sat on a bench and shared a pastry as we watched the world go by. Later on, we walked through the square of Montmartre, a historical place for art where the artists would go and paint such as Van Gogh and Picasso.

A small square surrounded by restaurants, artists paint around the centre of the square which is now filled by temporary bistros, standing in the very place that is meant for the artists.

But that’s the thing. The artists can’t afford to rent that space anymore, and tourists bring in the big money to the food business.

We walk around and I feel incredibly sad seeing the amount of portraits the artists are doing. I know they don’t want to paint strangers’ faces. They want to paint what they want to paint, landscapes, buildings, sunsets, darkness, light, abstract- anything but this.

Maybe I’m wrong, but passing their stalls and seeing their expressions, I didn’t think I was.

But all artists know that sometimes we have to sell our souls to survive to carry on with our true craft. And if it pays the bills so you can wake up the next day and do what you love? Why not.

I see the examples of celebrities’ portraits they use to try and entice the tourists in- the celebrities the tourists will know like Taylor Swift, Twilight actors and Brad Pitt.

I can tell that the sixty year old man wearing the tweed cap and the round spectacles doesn’t give a crap about the celebrities of today. I look at his example of paintings and see a self portrait of himself, rich with colour and the old tweed cap still in place.

It makes me smile. I want to tell him, “I know! I know how you must feel! Please know I’m not like the others- I’m not like the others!”

But of course I don’t speak French and wearing a floral dress and cardigan, I am unmistakably English for everyone to see.

“It’s not like it once was,” Edouard says, pulling me away. “Years ago, this place was purely for the artists. Now? The restaurants take up the space for the tourists to eat and have their portraits done.”

I wonder what the artists of old would think about this set up right now as we walk down the steps back into the heart of the city. We walk through a small market selling fruit fruit, fish and vegetables, an older woman at the centre singing a French love song with all of her heart.

My head is spinning, needing to look at everything all at once. The buildings tower over me, the scents overwhelm me and the noises have invaded my brain.

Paris is a living breathing entity of stone, root, flesh and history.

Escaping the concrete for a while, we take a shortcut through a park. My ears prick at the sound of familiar music and we follow its direction.

“It’s a Brazilian dance,” Edouard explains. We come closer to see people dancing the traditional Brazilian samba dance. Drums are beating, people are twisting, turning and jumping over one another. I’m instantly reminded of my Delos Crew whilst they continue on in Brazil.

I move to the music holding Edouard’s hand, a huge smile on my face.

“Now this,” Edouard says, “this is Paris for me.”

I nod, feeling an overwhelming sense of energy rish through me.

I’m here. I’m actually here! And I can’t stop thinking that. I feel like someone is going to wake me up any second. I look at Edouard and realise the magnitude of what we have achieved. We met on a random island in the middle of the ocean and here we are now. In Paris, holding hands listening to Brazilian music, surrounded by fellow travellers as they sing and make music.

We spent the rest of the night with Edouard’s pals Felix and Anne-Charlotte, the girl-with-the-blue-hair. Kindly donating me some clothes once we are in her apartment, I pull off the ridiculous English dress I am wearing, put on a plain blue one of hers and shrug on a black hoody.

I feel more like myself immediately.

“Now you look like you are from Paris,” Edouard says with a smile.

The skies darken, drinks are poured, and we spend the duration of the evening going to a few bars, making friends and ending up at one of Anne-Charlotte’s friend’s house for a house party.

It’s been nice getting to know her more, hearing her own love story with Edouard’s best friend Bruno. It’s strange to think just a couple of months ago, Edouard was telling me about them both as we were sitting in the hot sun on Ascension Island, not knowing that we were about to save a bunch of baby turtles.

The house party continues and hours pass. Everyone is talking to someone and suddenly my two English translators, Edouard and Anne-Charlotte are deep in conversation with fellow French. There’s a distinct moment where I am sitting there not understanding a word.

It’s strange living in a country where you can’t understand the language. It’s like being in a world of silence. I know how I’m starting to feel. I know that there’s two ways how this can go. I can either sit here and wait for Edouard to save me or I can stand up and do my best to communicate.

I take the second choice, walking up to people and using the very little French I know.

I want to be independent, not relying on Edouard each time I want to say something. I want to show him that I am willing to learn and that I can look after myself.

The people at the house party are incredibly friendly, helping me with my sentences and bridging the gap of our mutual misunderstandings. We use our hands to illustrate what we mean, looking like a weird game of charades.

But it worked.

The music is playing loudly in the beautiful Parisian apartment and soon it’s my turn to put on a song. I put on Onetox, the intro tune of SV Delos and jump up and down until my feet are sore as I dance along to the music.

And for a moment, I feel like my crew are with me.

More time passes until it’s 5:30am. After walking back Anne-Charlotte back to her apartment and pouring her a glass of water, we walk to the train station and start the journey back to Edouard’s village.

I rest my head against his shoulder as dawn starts to slowly break against the clouds. I am exhausted but happy as I stare out of the window. 

Edouard is talking about a new adventure of his and wants me to join.

I smile, excited for the new start I’ve been given and close my eyes as I listen to his accent lilting up and down. As his plans unfold, I realise I’m going to have to learn a lot more French.

What a wonderful beginning.

Categories
The French Diaries!

The French Diaries: Part 1. “Paris”

I stand in the airport, bewildered and stunned suddenly at the noise rushing around my ears. Faces hurry past me, families laughing, couples scowling and children yawning sleepily as the clock chimed past an hour they had never seen before.

I hitched my rucksack higher on my shoulders, a multi-coloured blaze of glory that the Delos Crew had bought me for my birthday. They had wanted to get something they felt represented me so I would, “get rid of that f**king thing.” I had left my ugly green backpack behind, and in a way, every stain and tear that backpack had gone through in the past felt like it represented myself somehow.

But I was breaking out. I was stepping free from that old skin.

I looked down at the boarding pass in my hand.

Paris.

It was so strange to think this day had come. I had been waiting for it for so long. Days and weeks had passed of not knowing, to then knowing that this would happen.

The next three weeks that followed after Edouard asking me to come to Paris were met with a strange sense of calmness. Every day meant something. Every moment counted.

We had managed to talk every now and again since I finally had some internet. But he had to fly to Tanzania for a charity project for two weeks and look after some French teenagers whilst helping the community.

“I want to show the kids that you don’t have to be connected to wifi all the time,” he explained to me. “I want to teach them how to disconnect and be in the moment.”

And that’s how I felt in my last week. Being in the moment with my crew.

“It’s like someone has told me I have seven days to live,” I tried to explain to Lisa as we were sitting on the back of Delos at night with a glass of wine in hand. “It’s like every day matters. There’s no taking anything for granted.”

And I knew in that moment that that was probably the way life should be seen in any case. Because every day does matter. Nothing should be taken for granted.

I think back now to who I was at the beginning of this journey. I could never have imagined that this would be the outcome of my voyage. And I’m so glad that my leaving Delos was not done out of sadness, or because the journey was ending at a particular port. It was ending out of love. It was ending because another was starting.

And in a way, it wasn’t ending at all. After talking with Brian, Karin and Brady, it was discussed that I would continue to be a part of the Delos Project on land and help them with whatever they needed- including continuing to write the Delos Story for them.

I was leaving out of the best of circumstances.

But hell it was emotional.

As I walked with my boarding pass tightly clasped in my hand through security, I thought back to saying goodbye to my crew.

The night before we had a party on the beach, all wrapped up to avoid being bitten by the flies, we danced, we drank and we sang and played the guitar until our fingers were bloody.

Standing with the girls about to go home to Delos, we all decided to swim back to the boat naked. I can’t remember whose idea it was, but we pulled off our clothes, threw them to the boys to look after in the dingy and dived into the black surf of the sea.

I don’t even think I felt the cold.

It was an incredible moment, laughing and singing as one as we dragged the water beneath our arms and legs, the bioluminescence twinkling around our limbs like fireflies. It was as if we were swimming through the night sky itself.

It was a special moment with my girl crew as the rest of the party called us crazy.

And as the boys chased us in Maggie and dived in as well, I had an overwhelming sense of peace and joy. This was my family. This incredible bunch of crazy people that had helped me form who I am. Who helped me find myself again.

And as the morning came and I finished off packing the rest of my things, I remember just sitting there in the lounge, staring at Brian and wondering how on earth I was ever going to say “see you later” to him.

Our friend Felipe was giving me a lift to the airport and I was to be dropped off at his boat any minute for then a three hour car journey from Ubatuba.

Wow, was I ready?

I couldn’t stop crying as my crew dropped me off at his boat, clinging onto them desperately as I sought to be a part of two worlds.

Couldn’t they all just come to Paris with me?

My eyes watering at the mere memory of their faces as I waved goodbye, I thanked customs and walked through to the departures lounge.

It was a strange feeling being without them. But if I had been afraid of breaking under the pressure of life without them, I felt strong after the love they had given me. I felt like in the past my spine had become nothing but chalk, beaten and brittle under the events that had happened over the past two years of my life. But after being with Delos, it was as though they had poured strength into my bones. I walked straight, feeling excited, invigorated and ready.

I would be strong. I could do this!

Hours passed and soon I was walking around another airport- Casablanca. It wasn’t long before I was sitting on another plane, staring out of the window with my hands tightly clasped over my lap. The land disappeared beneath my eyes suddenly as we took off into the air and it hit me that in less than three hours, I would be there.

And then I suddenly realised how far I was away from Delos.

I looked at the map on my screen and hovered over England and France for a moment, thinking of my sister probably lying in bed asleep with the rest of her family. I thought of Edouard in France, waiting for me at the airport.

Would everything still feel the same? Would he think I looked different? How would things be on land? Would he still want to be with me?

It was all such a big risk.

We landed finally at Paris.

Paris.

It was happening, it was happening, it was happening!

I gazed at the people surrounding me as we went through security, proud suddenly at being a European. This was the closest I had been to my country in nearly a year. I listened to the flurry of languages as I raced through to pick up my baggage, wondering whether I would understand any French.

I did not.

After waiting for twenty minutes, I paced back and forth to try and find someone who could help me. Waiting in a long queue for baggage assistance I realised that almost 40 minutes had passed since I had landed.

I hoped Edouard would wait for me. Maybe he would think I got cold feet and stayed in Casablanca? Maybe he would think I lied and I had never got on the plane at all?

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

I stood at the desk, waiting patiently as the woman took my passport number.

There was a clear glass wall behind her, showing all of the people who had just arrived, greeting their loved ones and families. I told myself not to search for Edouard. I couldn’t. I don’t think my heart could take it just yet.

But it was too late.

Because I saw him.

Standing with a sign in hand saying, “Welcome Miss England From Delos!” and a small turtle drawn underneath was being held by three people. A girl with blue hair and another tall guy I had never seen before with his long hair tied back behind his hand.

And then in the middle, there he was.

Standing exactly as I had seen him last, he and his friends were waiting patiently, strips of red and blue glitter on their faces as they searched for me in the crowd.

I was frozen.

But then they saw me through the glass.

Edouard grinned and waved at me, a handful of red roses in his hands as his friends started to cheer.

“I’m sorry about your baggage,” the woman behind the desk apologised, jolting me from the sudden wave of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm me.

“That’s ok,” I grinned. “I really don’t care about my bags.”

She blinked at me in surprise.

Pointing to the group of people on the other side of the glass, my smile became even wider. “My friends are there waiting for me. I really don’t care about my stuff. It’s only things.”

I had lost everything but I felt nothing about it. I didn’t care. I had all I needed with me. How could I ever feel sad or annoyed that I had lost my belongings when I had just gained so much?

Quickly telling the woman the two sentence version of our story, my smile was suddenly echoed on her face.

“Come over here!” she beckoned to Edouard through the other side as she swung in her chair.

He came closer and I couldn’t believe suddenly that there was this stupid pane of glass separating me from him.

His hair was a mixture of wild curls and tiny little braids done by the African children in Tanzania as he grinned at me, writing down his address for the woman to have my baggage posted to his address when it had been found.

“Can I go now?” I begged her.

After making me sign a few more forms, giving her my flight number and anything else that could have been done in slow motion she finally nodded.

“Welcome to Paris!”

I signalled that I was coming around to Edouard and started to race to the other side, walking down a small corridor until the blinding lights of the next room hit me.

He stood in the centre, the roses still in his hands as he waited for me.

I don’t know how I felt. Overwhelmed, excited, happy, exhausted, emotional, a wreck, hopeful, fearful and everything in between.

My heart was beating so hard in my chest as I came closer, owning suddenly nothing but the backpack and clothes I was wearing.

“You’re here!” he laughed.

And then suddenly his arms were wrapped around me and everything became very simple.

I was here, in Paris with Edouard.

Finally.

That night I met Bruno and Ann-Charlotte- the girl with the blue hair, Bruno’s girlfriend. It was incredible to think that these people had also come with Edouard just to see me. There was such joy and happiness in their faces as I spoke to them that I instantly felt so welcomed and safe. And as we squeezed into Edouard’s 1980’s 4L, I grasped his hand.

Everything felt like it should all of a sudden. The lights of Paris passed us by as the night wrapped itself around a sleeping world. Paris. What an incredible place. There was so much to do. So much to explore. A whole new life to live!

Edouard squeezed my fingers tightly and we exchanged a look that said we both couldn’t believe we were both here, together.

We celebrated by drinking a bottle of wine on top of a hill in his village with Bruno and Ann Charlotte, wrapped in blankets and discussing life and love. They all spoke English around me and I used the little French I had learned whilst being in Brazil.

Soon Ann Charlotte and Bruno left with a promise to see us again for a double date and I was suddenly alone with Edouard.

And if I had been afraid of anything feeling different, there was no need. Because as I lay there on the grass with him, catching up on the past seven weeks, it felt like we were back on that beach on Ascension Island, lying side by side in the sand.

But this time we were lying on the grass, surrounded by trees with the stars flying above us that I hadn’t seen for so long.

And in that moment, I realised that everything felt the same. I was with this incredible person who was smiling at me as he spoke of his adventures, about waiting for me, of reading my emails over and over and counting the days until I would land.

It was another adventure to be had.

And after feeling lost for so long, I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

In the moment.

Note: (Want to support a poor sailor/author/painter/pirate to buy bacon and rum? Head over to my books and grab yourself a copy! Or you can find me on Patreon! Thanks for your support!)

 

Categories
The French Diaries!

The French Diaries: The Beginning

Wow. It’s been one hell of a journey. I’ve been around the world from England, to Australia, to Africa, to the middle of the ocean and now I find myself once again in Europe- but this time I’m not in England.

I’m in France.

And those of you who have been following my journey will understand why that’s a bit crazy for me. I had no idea when I landed at Ascension Island at the end of June this year that I would end up meeting someone. I had no idea when that person left they would want me to come to Paris. That I would actually buy a ticket.

That I would be here.

But here I am indeed, sitting with a glass of red wine, listening to the language I don’t fully understand wrap around me as Edouard sits beside me and talks with his brother. I’ve been here nearly three weeks now and already it’s been a whirlwind adventure.

So this is an announcement to let you all now that the French Diaries start this weekend. I wanted to touch base with you all to let you know that the journey will be continued. And of course I will still be working for the beloved Delos Project.

I was terrified of leaving Delos. I was so scared I would end up losing myself and crumble beneath the stresses of civilisation. But if anything I feel like I’ve stepped onto land and taken everything that my crew have taught me and put it into action.

I feel good.

I feel strong.

And most of all- I feel loved.

So I hope you all are happy to continue this journey with me, as I tell the story of landing in France, to where I am now and to the crazy future plans that await me.

I can’t wait to share with you.

But for now, just know I love you all.

Thank you for being here on this adventure with me.

 

Note: (Want to support a poor sailor/author/painter/pirate to buy bacon and rum? Head over to my books and grab yourself a copy! Or you can find me on Patreon! Thanks for your support!)