Culture shock 2

We're just back from a few days break away from Grillou, a kind of punctuation mark between the life we've led this summer and the one to come over the winter. Fitting, because it coincided with Samhain, traditionally a time for looking back, for letting go of the old to make way for the new. We went to Périgord Noir, between Bergerac and Sarlat, an area that neither of us had visited before. Beautiful though it is, after the first day we almost turned tail and came home.

On the agenda was a bit of exploring, and a lot of walking, and so we stayed in a small, and very pleasant, town between the valleys of the Dordogne and the Vezère rivers where we thought we'd get the best of both worlds. What I wasn't prepared for was the sheer heights to which tourism has been raised there. Now I'm not a good tourist at the best of times: I hate 'attractions' and guided tours and all the junk that comes along with them, and I hate being regimented; I'd much sooner stumble upon quirky, low-key places almost by accident than have everything presented to me on placards and in guide books. And I particularly hate being seen as exploitation fodder. So when, on the first day of our holiday, we thought we would briefly explore a couple of the well known villages on the Dordogne before setting out on a walk from the third, I neither expected nor appreciated having to stuff a parking meter with a rather large amount of change in order to park anywhere within four kilometres of - well, anywhere, really. Hectares of each village were given over to paying (yes, even between 12pm and 2pm, unheard of and truly shocking) parking, with all other land barred off; in spite it of being the Toussaint school holidays the car parks were mostly empty, meaning of course no trade for local businesses ... now how crazy is that as a policy ??? We did stop at one and had a desultory look around, but after half an hour of feeling as though we were in an over-restored and twee theme park we decided, simultaneously, to beat a hasty retreat.

The same evening we ate out in a simple restaurant in our local town known and recommended for its wood fired pizzas. We ordered a pichet of red wine. "You'd prefer a half bottle of this" said our host. Er, no, actually we wouldn't. He snorted, and asked us whether we'd like water. Of course we would. "Still or sparkling?" asked our host. No, just a carafe of tap water, I said. It's many years since I've been through this charade; in Ariège, as in most of southern France, water is brought to your table with a basket of bread almost as you sit down. He snorted again. We ordered pizzas. "Would you like a side order of chips?" asked our relentless host. (Chips?? With pizza???) By now we were feeling distinctly uncomfortable, as if as visitors to the area we were fair game to be milked for cash. Our host sulked off to the kitchen, returning a couple of minutes later to ask ... if we were Belgian.

For the rest of our stay we did our best to get more off the beaten track. The landscape is lovely - deep valleys, limestone cliffs and wooded hills - as is the vernacular architecture. But it's just all so ... nice. The verges look as though they've been clipped with nail scissors; nearly all the houses are immaculate; even the trees are neat. There are no soixante-huitards or 'eepees', not a dreadlock or a beur to be seen (and gens de voyage - travellers - are actually prohibited from stopping anywhere in the two valleys). The level of control - for residents as well as visitors - is awesome. After a few days I was longing to get back to the laid back, well worn, non money-grasping, somewhat anarchic, culturally mixed vibe of Ariège.

And so here we are, home. And at home.

Culture shock

I just got back yesterday from a fast and furious weekend (out Friday afternoon, back Monday morning) in London, working with a group of bodyworkers and therapists. It's a while since I was in London, though I spent a lot of years living and working there and know it pretty well. But oh boy, did I struggle with it this time ...

It all began pretty well, with an on time flight and a quick and easy train ride on the Stansted Express. With a bit of time in hand, I decided to make a pilgrimage to one of my favourite bookshops, Watkins Books. Great bookshop, crap location: in a small alley just off Charing Cross Road, and right by Leicester Square tube. Mistake. Sardines and strap-hanging in the tube I can cope with; I even managed not to disgrace myself with my ignorance of how to use my new Oyster Card. The West End crowds, however, were another story. From the moment I emerged from the underground, I was swept up into a gigantic and frantic crowd of people, all trying to get somewhere I didn't want to go. It was impossible to counter the current. I felt claustrophobic, disorientated. Everybody seemed to have an impossible number of carrier bags (crise? What crise???) or, worse, a pull-along suitcase - yes, my legs have the bruises to prove it - and the vast majority seemed interested only in pursuing their chosen course, utterly oblivious to the presence of other persons, who were simply pushed out of the way. I'm really not trying to offend anyone here and I'm sorry if you're a Londoner, but it was horrendous, shocking: as the French would say, hallucinant.

After an hour of this I wanted to cry and after two I wanted to come home. It was that bad. It continued to be That Bad, too, as I made my way up towards north London to join my group; I felt increasingly invisible, irrelevant, dispensable. I wasn't a person but a thing, an object. I was a grockle, a fish out of water. I wondered how people who live there cope without becoming depressed or homicidal: the noise, the lack of space, the all-encompassing concrete-ness, the traffic, the sheer number of people, the lack of politesse or just basic respect for others' needs and personhood. I guess you just have to close down, to put a wall around you, to grow a thick skin, to put yourself first. And there, of course, is the rub.

I did have a great weekend, working with some great people - one of whom was (and I almost wrote 'also' here!) French, another was also an emigrant, having moved to live and work in Ibiza. But clearly, with four more such weekends coming up over the next 15 months, I need a creative strategy, and one that isn't of the thick-skin-growing 'if you can't beat 'em join 'em' variety because that's just not me. So, any city dwellers out there got advice for a Pyrenean neo-paysanne?

La carreleuse

So, I'm now a fully-fledged and assessed Level 2 tradeswoman, with the certificates (and cuts, bruises, broken nails and lack of sleep) to prove it; we worked solidly from 8.30am to 6.30pm over 5 days, with 35 minutes or so for lunch and no tea breaks. And we had homework! Tiles have been scribed, cut, shaped into shapes that you wouldn't think tiles would make, nibbled, drilled, trimmed, laid, grouted and then finally, at 6pm on the last day, knocked off again. Rooms have been set out, estimates have been done, borders have been bordered, designs have been designed, mosaics have been sworn at, role plays have been role played, customers have been charmed. We students - seven of us, six Geordie tradesmen and me - have imbibed more information than we thought our brains and bodies were capable of taking in in such a short time. My language has become a little - er - richer ... even if it did take me a while to understand what the guys were saying, such was the depth of their accents and dialect. And I've laughed so much that I've only just stopped aching; I don't know what it is about Geordie humour but it felt like being on the set of Auf Wiedersehn Pet. Only funnier. I'm still missing it (and them) all, a bit.

This is the place that became home for over 50 hours:



And this was halfway through one of my bathroom projects. Not exactly my style, but a bit of a challenge: each one of those bits of tile in the panel had to be designed and cut to shape individually ...



I even developed a bit of a soft(ish) spot for South Shields, which struck me as the kind of place that doesn't have a lot of money but nevertheless tries hard to make life pleasant for those who live or go there: the Marine Parks, for instance, were beautifully kept, and I passed the street sweeper every morning; and there seems to be a relatively high level of solidarité, or community support. My guest house, the Seacrest, couldn't have been better nor its owner kinder, and I enjoyed waking up every morning to a view of the sun rising over the sea and the sound of seagulls.

I wondered what it would be like to be back in the UK after well over two years absence: would I slip back into a comfortable duvet of familiarity? Would I wish I'd never left or, a bit like a friend who after a recent trip back to England experienced - to her great surprise and against her better judgment - a bizarre attack of 'home' sickness? Well, actually, no. I had a great time, but after 10 days or so I was reaching my limit. The constant concrete, traffic, over-peopled-ness, manic-ness and general level of nervous energy that surrounded me everywhere I went was beginning to get to me. I was upset by the daily amount of rubbish produced everywhere, by so many bags in so many trees, and by not being allowed to leave Tesco's without putting my two items in one of their plastic bags. I was upset by the sheer volume at which so many people spoke in restaurants. I was upset by the fact that 75% of city dwellers seem to have been genetically modified so as to be unable to walk, or have a coffee with a friend, without talking to someone on their mobile phone. All these things I had forgotten, but to tell the truth I felt a bit like a fish out of water. Being back at Grillou, with the mountains down the road and the silence all around me, is just bliss. Even if it is drizzly, and cold, and not at all spring like.

And I heard the first cuckoo this evening, so all is well.