Mummy lived and studied in the South of France for so long that French became her 2nd language and English took a humble 3rd place. Some times, she slips and switches to French in the middle of a conversation. It is surprising that French comes more naturally to her than English, given her love for the school and teachers that introduced her to the language. [The school, its drama and the family's love-hate relationship with it are a whole other story, though.] Since we had spent part of our journey seeing Daddy's old nooks and crannies, it seemed fitting that we should head south to the warmer bits of Europe.
But first, Paris! I had a silly dream in 1999, based on a silly song that had invaded radio stations and MCM that year. I believed that story that Paris was a magical place and that I was going to meet the love of my life in this, the great city of love. So, on the plane to Paris, I dreamt away.
Mummy was glad to be back in a familiar land. She knew the streets and recognised store names. The rest of us followed blindly, praying that we would survive the cold. Paris is bitterly cold in winter. It barely snowed. It was just miserable and soggy. We had some of Mummy's friends come to our hotel one night, she made them posho however, she used semolina flour instead of maize meal. The result tasted similar, but was a translucent paste as opposed to the white that we were used to. It was like eating flubber's colourless cousin with very good beef stew!
We made it to the Eiffel Tower. Well, we made it to the 1st level, had a couple of cups of tea and hot cocoa and decided it was too cold to go to the top. Then, we successfully got lost while walking down the Parisian streets. I was sure that this was destiny's way of leading me to my unknown love. Perhaps we would bump into him as we tried to make our way back to the hotel and he would be the angel that guided us back. [I did not find "him". I did, however, decide on that day that I wanted a piercing in my brow.]
The Parisian subway is where the lost French speaking Africans are found. It seemed like each carriage represented a particular African nation. If you need to find François from Kinshasa and he has not been seen on the continent in a while, check the Parisian subway. He just might be there.
I think we took a train to Marseille. We must have taken a train. No one flies except overpaid businessmen. Sadly, I do not remember the journey. I remember that we went to visit Yvan and Madeleine. Mummy used to work for them when she was still a struggling student. They sort of adopted her and some how Ivan was named after Yvan. [Apparently, Daddy's father was called Jovani (sp), a local translation of the name Ivan. So Ivan has so many claims to his origin and clearly, so many stories to tell his children]. I remember seeing an apple tree for the first time. Yvan had apples growing in his back yard. The ones on the tree were tiny, almost the shape of Christmas balls. But he had actually harvested some a little while before and kept them for us.
Madeleine had a shiny new VW beetle. I grew up in the days of fourth, not even second, hand cars. Logically, I knew that some one must have owned the car first in order for us to buy it off them. However, I had not seen an actual first had car up front. Come to think of it, the cabs in Paris are smart black Mercedes Benzes, unlike the run down Japanese cars I was accustomed to.
I think we actually went to Mummy's old school and saw some of her old hangs. There was something about a certificate and a lot of jubilation with Yvan and Madeleine. It was warm, we had freshly picked apples. Life was good. The warmth in the south was a welcome change from the harsh Parisian winter. I still do not get the point of winter.
We went to a citadel called Carcassonne. It looks exactly like it did in the 14th century, cone-topped towers, roads made with stone blocks and high stone walls. It's the kind of thing you think would be a great set for the Harry Porter movies. We bought bowls with our names on them and guarded them jealously until we all moved out of home, and mummy claimed them back as hers. There is a picture of Ivan [or was it I] in a pillory [that is what Google calls it] and another of Ivan praying in a church [that may not have been the same place, but I remember it must have been in France or was it Switzerland?].
Yvan and Madeleine are almost 90 now and live in Mauritius with most of their children and grand children. I like the fact that they have options open to them. One day, I hope I, too, can choose to retire wherever I want and go where the weather is nice. Wait, the weather is already perfect in Uganda. Never mind.
There is one more story to tell. While were at the airport, preparing to leave France, I went down the wrong escalator and ended up on the wrong platform. See, these European airports are not like Entebbe that has one departure and arrival lounge. They are big enough that sometimes you need to take a train from one end to another. This platform was for departures i. e. there was no escalator going back to where I came from. So, as [my] logic dictated, I picked up my bag and headed back to the stairs I had just descended. After climbing for a while, I realised I wasn't going anywhere. I decided to take a break and then realised I was going even further away from my destination. So I picked up my bag again and run as fast as I could. Daddy and the others were in tears, almost rolling on the floor with laughter. Eventually, some nice man felt sorry for me and swept my luggage and I up in each of his arms. He then calmly delivered me at the top of the stairs to my smiling family. For a while there, I was convinced that they were going to leave me in Paris. Maybe the song was about that nice man. I never even asked for his name.
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