in and getting it to my liking. Instead I’m down here… “Mrs Bertha No Mates”. A life with no real purpose.
I watched the lights twinkling along the shoreline as traffic wove its way along the bord de mer, to-ing and fro-ing between Cannes or Cap d’Antibes. It might only be February but the pavement restaurants had plenty of customers enjoying meals and wine under the warmth of industrial gas heaters. People were out there living their lives. People with friends. People with a purpose.
I grabbed my jacket and went out, determined to lose myself in all that action. Become a part of the scene to another casual onlooker.
27th February.
Usually the only bar or cafe I go to is Jacques’, but last night I wasn’t up to being continually questioned about Bella. Honestly, he’s obsessed. Even got me to post a Valentine’s card for him. He wanted her address really but I wasn’t sure about that, so I offered to post it for him. I won’t think about the fact that La Poste didn’t deliver any Valentine’s cards for me this year. Can’t think why.
I walked past Jacques’ cafe and made for the other end of Juan. Found an empty table at a bistro opposite the Casino entrance, treated myself to a carafe of house red and settled down to watch the comings and goings of the glamorous twenty-first century Gatsby set. And boy, weren’t they glamorous.
Luxury cars, designer clad women – well girls mainly – clutching the arms of tuxedo wearing men. Didn’t spot any celebrities – maybe need to go to Cannes or Monaco for that, but it was a fun people-watching session.
Walking back to the apartment an hour or so later I felt better. More energised and focused on making my life down here work. Window shopping in the various designer boutiques that line the main street of Juan-les-Pins, I saw an advert for a part-time assistant for the season in one of them. Part-time would be fine for me so I’m thinking of applying. Working would put some routine and purpose into my life.
Worrying about Katie and the Ben situation isn’t going to solve anything. She’s twenty, currently at college and living her own life. Once she’s finished college this summer and gets a job she’ll want her own place anyway. She’s very unlikely to want to live with me when I get back and buy somewhere.
Haven’t done any of the exploring I promised myself I would do yet, so Friday I’m going to take a train ride along the coast to Italy and go to the market in Ventimiglia. I’m told it’s the market to go to down here. Might even indulge in some proper retail therapy, rather than just window shopping.
Thank God February is a short month. With a bit of luck things will start to perk up during March, especially when we get to Easter.
Whatever you call it – having a gap year, or doing a Shirley Valentine – it’s turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. But then Shirley Valentine was fiction and this is my reality. And let’s face it, Tom Conti is hardly likely to turn up in my life is he?
The train to Italy was packed but it was a lovely journey along the coast, watching the glittering surface of the ever-moving Mediterranean out of one window and the countryside out of the other.
I managed to grab a window seat and enjoyed daydreaming about the villas and apartments we flashed past. Small bijou cottages, large tower blocks, lavish villas… they’re all here along this bit of coastline. We passed the famous Baie des Anges with its marina and apartment blocks built to resemble waves. Too modern for me, I decided. I’m definitely a Belle Epoque villa type of girl. In my dreams!
The tunnel from Cap d’Ail down into Monaco seemed endless. As the train finally pulled into Monaco I was half tempted to get off and spend the day there exploring, but decided to stick with my original plan.
Ventimiglia market is huge. I found it quite disorientating. So many people jostling to find a bargain. Lots of kitchen equipment, leather, pasta, handbags, cheese, clothes, oh you name it there was a stall selling it. I could have spent a fortune. There was one pair of leather shoes that positively had my name on them.
Stupidly I’d forgotten to take a shopping basket, so I treated myself to a straw one to hold the pasta, the olives, the Parmesan cheese and some lovely shiny aubergines I couldn’t resist buying. I did resist a fake Chanel handbag though – something I was glad about on the way home.
Had lunch in a lovely restaurant with a covered terrace overhanging the edge of the beach. I was surrounded by Italian and French families and the noise level was unbelievable. Italians are so vocal when they get together. Luckily the waiter spoke a bit of both French and English so I managed to ask questions and order the food I wanted. And a glass of Prosecco, of course.
The main course was good – tagliatelle with basil – but O.M.G. the tiramisu dessert was to die for. Promised myself I’d be strict for the rest of the week to make up for all the calories I was eating.
The train journey home was exciting. We were raided by the customs contraband police – would you believe!
Seeing the faces of the women on the train as they watched the police tear apart their recent purchases with sharp knives, I was so glad I hadn’t succumbed to temptation and bought that fake Chanel handbag. Eliosa had warned me about buying stuff like that when I told her I was coming here.
‘It’s not worth the risk,’ she’d said. ‘Save up for the real thing.’ At least my cheap straw basket was safe from the knife wielding cops.
6th March.
I’m really not sure about this conversation class I’ve been going to for the past few weeks. If it doesn’t improve soon I think I’ll drop out.
I seem to spend all my time talking – in English – to Colette, who is desperate to improve her English so she can get a job in London, where apparently “eet is all ‘appening.”
There are two or three English couples there who treat the morning as an excuse for a gossipy catch-up and a bitch about their French neighbours. Been tempted to ask them “if you don’t like it, why don’t you go home?” So far I’ve managed to restrain myself.
The two French women I try to talk to don’t understand my accent so that gets pretty fraught. Beginning to think I need a more structured class with a teacher setting pages of verb homework to be learnt. One to one tuition. Must pluck up the courage to ask Marc if he can recommend anyone. I’ve been avoiding asking him anything since my faux pas with le cinq à sept.
I keep thinking about Eliosa’s sleeping dictionary suggestion. Finding one of those though, even if I wanted one, is clearly not going to happen in a hurry. It’s not as if I can walk into the local bookshop, find the section marked “Dictionaries” and have a selection to pick one from.
Seen Nino visiting Eliosa a couple of times this month. Nice that he keeps an eye on her, although it always seems to be very brief visits. I guess he’s busy with the yacht.
Walked home via the market after the class and bought some red geraniums for the roof terrace pots and a couple of trailing white ones for the balcony baskets. Finally bumped into the Swedish woman from the garden flat in the entrance hall. After we’d introduced ourselves, Lotta invited me in for a coffee.
7th March.
Turns
