Walking the streets of Nice
Born free but forgotten
Land long insulted, people long beaten
Rise, rise to be remembered
Rise, rise they sung, the song filled the air before it filled their lungs
Broken men live in hell
Rise, rise they sung, a prayer to the gods for answer never heard
Rise, rise they sung, victory is theirs, and they sung no more
Born free learn and long insulted
Do not let yourselves be taught into submission
Forgotten in victory, a memory of forgotten dreams
Rise, rise they sing for their present
Rise, rise they sing for their future
Rise, rise they sing to be remembered
The Fake African
Walking the streets of Nice
It was always cold. I couldn’t stand it; I wouldn’t have it any other way. As years pass, countries and people visited begin to fade into an amalgamation of nondescript colors and senses, the proclamation of life pursuits stares at you in the face as we begin wonder what we’re doing with our time. Life is incessantly long. Never bought the idea of it being too short. Crossing Avenue Jean Medecin, passing Lafayette and Nice Etoile heading up to the Chagall museum to visit a close friend brought gave me joy. The route to the Museum provided great pleasure. Meandering through the weekend crowd, tourists and locals alike, feeding off their leisure happiness while the sun, bathed me with waves of warming tranquility, the wind whispering in my ears of the lands it crossed.
Most people were heading south to the beach, I was heading north. I was heading to my solace, to the place where someone could connect without being connected for a moment. In summer, it was too hot to make the walk to the museum, though the heat didn’t bother me much. Looking at paintings in the museum was my prize for suffering the Nicoise sun. The sky was always a light bright blue in summer. The heat……perfect for the sea and the ambiance, a beauty that haunts my dreams. I never understood how a place could be so fantastic for the senses. So fantastic did the senses feel, the food though was not anything to be inspired by. What it lacked in depth and love, Gods granted it in natural beauty.
The walk was long and hot, the senses full in rapture, the paintings all the more magnificent when looked upon. It was the only way to see the paintings, be hot, be hungry or be cold, be something and look. The colours were always so vibrant to me, so real and boundless, shapes playful with youthful dynamism. I never knew why I liked Chagall, nor understood the style, what did I know was how it made me feel and meant to me. That’s more important, the moment you see it, feel it as it unlocks something in your mind that makes you meditate upon everything in your life, past and present. I would leave, then I would cry. Take a detour avoiding Place Massena and end up at Place Garibaldi; I wouldn’t see anybody I knew around that area, particularly now I was red eyed. There was an inconspicuous cafe where I would order a demi-biere, (I never wanted to be buzzed in public during the day) Nice is that kind of town, it didn’t feel right being drunk during a beautiful summer day in Nice. The thoughts would continue to ravage my mind, suicide, the meaning of it all, could I actually reach that illusive pinnacle or would this beauty that seemed to encompass all the beauty of the Gods wonder be it? I went to the bar again.
“Un autre, Monsieur?” He asked.
“Oui.”
He poured. I sat again. I thought again, where do I fit, again?
I had landed in France by chance. Rather chance of a European Union country that had stats showing itself to be more multicultural than others in relation to those of a tanned disposition. I liked France, my wife liked France, the food, the art, the cheese; there wasn’t a lot for one not to appreciate on paper. From Rome we took a flight to Bordeaux, I liked Bordeaux too. Sounds fancy, elegant, wine and everything French. We arrived in the dead of winter in the month of January. The sun had taken a vacation left us to fend for ourselves in the rainy misery of this small town. We spent a couple of days in the city. It was cute but boring with nothing to do and people who lacked the splendour and revelry in the chaos of life. We moved into a hotel just off the main street for a couple of nights and decided this was the town where we were going to make a new life. We strolled the sodden, dark streets in search of a metaphorical sign to make us stay. I searched and was lost, she wandered and was confused. Walking down the High street in need of a new French mobile number, I wandered into a phone shop and attempted to strike up a minute conversation with my limited French for deals on mobile rates. We entered the store and went quickly for the brochures to familiarize ourselves with the lingo. The sales lady stood at a distance glancing at us, as we tried to understand what was written. We summoned our resolve and approached her, asked her to explain the deals. She stared with distrust and condemnation. It was at this moment I realized this was not the city for me.
“Oui, Monsieur?” She confirmed my assumptions about the prices and phone. Finding it all the more difficult for her not to embrace her affirming curiosity, “Vous etes d’ou?” I explained where we were from. We then walked out, never to return.
Onto the next one. Our last night in Bordeaux we went for a meal at a quaint little bistro that served duck with a carafe of wine. I had never had it before. It was nice, tasty, fatty but lacked natural flavour and relied too much on the richness of the sauce. I want more. Next stop Lyon.
Lyon, the home of French cuisine. Maybe in the olden days for middle-aged pompous snobs. I never understand where these terms come from. Who agrees to deem food from a particular part country to be better than another, or another city nonetheless? It’s nothing unordinary, normal, bland lacking even more inspiration. Darkness, demons and the people seemed to walk hand in hand here. The little Ikea apartment we stayed in was on a deserted road near a Monte dei Paschi de Sienna Bank. The bank was pretty, the street was not. Conservative, emotionless and functional that is Lyon. Functional tram, functional cinema, edible food and possessed people. Here to, I got the sign that this was not our city, when we witnessed an atrocity. We had had dinner near Place Bellecour and were heading back to our little apartment. It was bitterly cold as we come to learn was the case in Lyon. We passed the statutes, that in the winter darkness looked like demons placed to invoke the devil himself, they frightened me.
“Why do you always get dramatic about what you see? Why do you always have to look for something wrong? Why can’t you just enjoy what we have?” she asked.
“Trust me, I wish I could.” I would always answer. “It’s not like you don’t see what I see.”
“That’s not the point.” She answered.
“What is it then? Would you want me not to see and be like your other lovers?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”
We walked in silence now. The seeds of our displeasure had long been planted, just a little more water and the seeds of misery would soon break the soil above.
A man walking his dog, came to view in a deep alley way to the right. He was speaking on the phone walking his dog calmly and elegantly as most men do. A moment passed and the dog that was on its leash broke away and darted across the road heading towards the river. The dog ran as though bewitched, ignoring all else went into the middle of the road and was hit by an oncoming car with yellow lights carving its way through the darkness. The car stopped for a moment. The dog did not. The car continued and the man on his phone walked seamlessly after his dog, Lyon was not for me. It was not for us. The cold wind blew harshly into our ears, ‘Leave.’
Next stop Toulouse. The city of sausage or Airbus to some, for me sausage. Our money was becoming lighter with every city we visited. We needed to settle and be part of this country as soon as possible or our experiment would have no merit. We stayed in a hotel on the outskirts of the town centre and were determined this time to stay. We went to the Alliance Francaise at the Place du Capitole to get help with in looking for accommodation. The more sensible part of my character thought it necessary to get into the student scene, after all this was a city made famous by its student population. Not to sound like a bickering adolescent but when we asked our questions and aide about accommodation and the French language courses, we were hit with a resounding, ‘sort it out yourself’ attitude. Undeterred by the sheer lack of professionalism and help we strove to keep going. Toulouse is a quaint town, for a ‘student’ town underwhelming but for a town slightly more inspired. The air seemed to have a hint of reality that other cities seemed to have missed. Our desperation grew with every day we didn’t find an apartment, finances were not the issue here, getting somewhere to accept it proved more to be an issue.
First, there was the issue of sans meuble, which are effectively empty apartments. The idea of moving into a place without a stove reminded me of a situation one find oneself in a township in South Africa rather than a French town demanding ‘normal’ rent through an agency. It was during this time that I began to suspect that our misfortune regardless of the fortune lay perhaps within my melanin rather than the lack of agencies with decent places to stay. At some point I do not remember when, I begun to let my wife go in alone and find out how best we can rent an apartment for the two of us. The introductions were usually fruitful and when I joined in the conversation perhaps later in the search, it proved to be almost ‘impossible’ to find a place of residence. Still, we did not fall into the mind labyrinth. We never dared to speak its truth. You gaze upon its entrance and take one step into its inviting chasm of ‘seeking truth’ and you find yourself staring at the demons of the self.
There was a fair of some sort on our last day in the main square. It seemed there was always some sort of fair in these towns. Perhaps I am speaking unkindly of them but the monopoly of illusion seems to me the only recourse one has in misery; the ability to tell the truth of an occurrence would seldom serve purpose in such times. We went to the square and had Toulouse sausages, drank wine, walked one last time to find the student feel and found ourselves further in desperation at the lack of. Good bye Pink city, good bye people who live on the Outer waste lands of the city and goodbye to those who wished to place us within a limited desire of our envisioned life. One city was now left before all would be lost.
Nizza, Nissa, Nice the beautiful. Our trip from Toulouse to Nice was smooth with no hiccups. Our great discomfort was leaving our apart-hotel for the bitterly cold train station to wait for the train. My wife at the time was ever so patient with me and our ‘mini-adventure.’ When we decided to get married, she wanted to stay in the U.K and me, wanting out from the environmental and professional misery wanted to be in a place that was optimistic but limited its cultural neuroses. Italy was the country and Rome the city, which was from where she hailed. The sojourn in the Eternal city did not go well and rather made our relationship very mortal and riddled with cancer. France was supposed to be our great hope to save our relationship and I for the most part was the initial cause for the demise of it.
Throughout the trip so far, Ilaria was a trooper. She always had envisioned living some form of a bohemian lifestyle, though was not very keen on the French. She had tried repeatedly before our move to construct a new manifestation of her experience, which went much further than, “the women are bitches!” Ilaria was definitely an interesting character, MY character!
We met in the U.K at call centre in Birmingham. I was her Supervisor. I thoroughly enjoy saying that, it definitely did add a little extra spice to our love making; after all I was younger than her, inexperienced and still, she had desire for me. How our relationship grew at the centre seemed to be one of random misunderstandings. She came to the centre for a temporary job, she had just moved from Paris with her boyfriend. I never met him. She came in with the group of other, ‘European language’ speakers for the ‘European’ project. I never understand the British obsession with indicating other Europeans are ‘there’ and we are ‘here.’ It annoys me. The rationale I can think of is that the ‘others’ provide skill, love, creativity and colour to the bland. And if you if you are ‘bland’ why can you not possess ability to not be? Anyway I digress. She came for the European project. She didn’t stand out to me much when I first saw her, just her dark hair and cocoa butter smell. Always cocoa butter, I love cocoa butter. The way it always seems to melt into her skin, then drank up by the millions of skin cells and released back into the atmosphere as an intoxicating smell that beckons.
Her first day at the centre was uneventful, as I believe staunchly in the one’s necessity to maintain his position at his place of work considering I was basically a minimum wage earner and couldn’t find an easier job without university qualifications. Our romance grew through circumstance and my lack of visual awareness at work. My version of events was that I was performing quality control for the interviews. The office section where we all worked was set up like a factory floor. Rows of computers, phones and chairs, with nothing more than a telephone line separating each interviewer. The east side of the wall was glass, allowing us to day dream. Everything else was grey and blue to remind us of our job. I sat with the manager surrounded by three computers that could be interlinked to see whatever any computer was doing. I did enjoy being this kind of voyeur, we saw what was on the screens and what people were doing from our little nest in the room. We listened in to the interviews being done live to make sure interviewers weren’t prank calling people or calling their friends and family. For some reason most interviewers were more than happy to make prank calls. Being able to make prank calls and have a general chat with whomever was on the other end of the line in whichever city or country was definitely one of the perks of the job. As I sat on my favourite black fabric covered swivel chair, she came to me with her timesheet and said, “Ni hao?”
“Ni hao, hao ma?” I responded barely looking up from the computer screen and signing her timesheet for when she arrived. I like to think, as she walked away she looked back waving her dark brown hair, wearing her favourite slippers that were particular to look at in the workplace but endearing to think about. The brief introduction in mandarin in that moment made us all the more interesting to each other. Wondering how we were able to understand each other beyond the words with ease. Myself having lived in China for years, yet never spoke of it to colleagues.It was not a secret but rather revealing information wouldn’t have served me well and potentially would have impeded me. People are naturally dismissive of experience unless it’s their own. And her a curious mind, thirsty for language learnt the basic hello through friends from China.
I never could understand how she could come to an office work environment wearing those black slippers that seemed to go well with every outfit she had. I continued to sit in my swivel chair watching and listening to interviewers ask ‘Europe’ benign questions. As the day progressed I became more perplexed by the fact that she had decided to wear slippers in an office but no one above me had noticed and so I thought no need to be over zealous with my position, plus there was clearly a motive to why I was particularly insulted by her dress code.
I remember it clearly, it was just after three o’clock in the afternoon when she came to me with a problem. Her computer had frozen up or something and I needed to reboot it or something of the sort. I really don’t care much for fixing things. The way I see it, when you create something it should not be altered for as long possible or face becoming a shadow of its original beauty. If it is to need reconstruction, destroy it and give birth again to a new original.
“Hi, sorry but I think I have a problem with my computer.” She said.
Knowing that this sometimes did happen, particularly with new projects the company had inputted into the system I went to see to the computer. There it was in front of me, mouse not moving screen frozen and clearly unresponsive. I did the wisest action to be done, I restarted it.
“It should work now. Just type in your details and it should start again.”
I sat back down in my chair, having noticed yet again her lotion and this time her skin tone and neckline. She had a slight olive tone, that seemed to reflect the light that led me to her neck line. Seconds passed and she was back with the same problem.
“It just froze again.”
“What’s your number?” I asked, wanting to know the number of her computer station.
She went back to her desk and came back with her mobile telephone number on the first page of a book she was reading and smiled. I asked her out later that day and plans for our first date that Saturday night. My tumultuous heart had not beat beyond its survival till that day. Our meeting point was to the Birmingham City Centre. I wore my best shirt, it had two of my favourite and lucky colours, red and blue. Destiny had other plans for our rendez-vous. Ilaria was not to be a woman I could just meet, speak to and make love with but was destined to be someone I would remember. I took the bus from Edgbaston as I was running a little late. I normally would have walked to save money but thought to enjoy the experience of being on a date for the first time in two years. The first time since it all happened. On the outskirts of the city centre our bus got stopped by Police who informed us that there was no way we could go into the centre as there was something happening. I was later find out that there was a bomb scare and everyone needed to evacuate Broad street. As other moments in life conspired to speak to me or rather shout, ‘GO!’ I got off the bus and smuggled my way into the centre to meet her by the junction in front of the bank, where we said we would meet. As I drew closer avoiding every policeman in sight I began to wonder whether destiny had spoken to her too. It did! Seeing her in the distance as everyone seemed to scatter in all directions, parting like the Red sea of old. I thought this was sure, she too had dismissed the Police notice and made her way to our rendezvous point. We spent our first evening having dinner at a Thai restaurant in Chinatown, after wandering the Birmingham centre and resting in a crevice of one of the buildings. We spoke till the early hours and though my corporal body wanted to kiss her with such consuming passion and take her to my place. Destiny, sought it best we rest in this plain of existence, safe from the mortal world’s corruption of pure connection. We sustained this for as long as we could before the sun came bursting through the night to remind us of our physical form.
