The massive doors of the ferry boat slowly rotate around giant hinges. Outside: Portsmouth, England. My heart beats a little faster. Is it excitement or anxiety? Both, I suppose. I’m 21 years old, I’ve never left France before, and I am going to live in another country for 3 months. Speak another language, work in another language, and even scarier: eat strange food.
Green lights. I turn on the ignition.
If a single word could define my childhood, it would be ‘moving.’ By the time I went to college and started living on my own at age 18, I had known 10 different homes across 7 cities: Witry, Reims, Livry-Gargan (close to Paris), Bordeaux, Muret and Ramonville (near Toulouse), and Tours. Before the furniture left a mark on the rugs, we started packing.
By American standards, nothing to brag about: all these cities are within a days’ drive from each other. You could get there and back over a three-day weekend without having to fly.
By French standards, however, I was a nomad. And I loved it.
Do NOT drive on the left side of the road, I tell myself. It’s easy, just follow everyone. Large signs remind absent-minded Continental travelers to ‘KEEP RIGHT’.
It feels so wrong.
Fortunately, I drive a French car, so I don’t have to shift gears with my left hand. I pray that I don’t crash the little Peugeot 205 that my generous brother let me borrow for the whole summer. Even a scratch would make me feel guilty. C-A-R-E-F-U-L.
At the first intersection I yield to another car. The driver waves his index finger in a cordial thank you, all without lifting his hand from the steering wheel. So British.
Before each move we had a ritual. My dad would draw a floor plan of the new place, with mathematical precision, along with a paper cut-out for each piece of furniture. The family would then sit around the dining table and debate different ways to configure the space.
Soon I did the same on my own, for my room. The bed goes here, the desk there… what if I put the shelves in the middle of this empty space? With every move came the opportunity to reinvent my personal world.
For navigation, I rely on a thick Rand McNally Road Atlas. There are no smart phones, no GPS, and mobile phones are the size of a briefcase — a luxury that a student cannot afford. City names flash by on green signposts.
Southampton, Newbury. The sun goes down.
Swindon, Gloucester, Cinderford. Sparkling dots on the road reflect the beams from my headlights. As I will later find out, the British aptly coined them “cat’s eyes.” Genius! We need those in France.
By age 10, I had packing down to a science. Place books in smaller cartons, mixed with clothes and lighter items. Avoid brick-heavy boxes that anger the movers and crush other cartons when stacked up in the truck. Start by putting away the stuff you don’t use often and make sure your daily essentials remain accessible until the end. Number and label each box. Write a packing list describing the contents of each carton so you can locate any item in a snap. Countless hours of enjoyment for a Capricorn.
It is pitch dark by the time I pass through Coleford, population 8,354 and the last town before my destination: a bed and breakfast called Scatterford Farm. I reach the village of Newland, consult my friend Rand McNally, and realize I’ve gone too far. I turn the car around and head back towards Coleford.
There are only 3 miles between the villages of Coleford and Newland. How did I miss the turn to Scatterford Farm?
If packing was fun, unpacking was even better. Everything has its place, and there’s a place for everything. Finding the perfect way to organize my books and toys was my life’s purpose. I could not control when we moved, or where we moved to, but I could organize my desk drawers, shelves, and closets to perfection. Boxes within boxes, neatly lined-up crayons, and books sorted in alphabetical order: my own personal bliss.
Coleford. Again. It’s 10pm. I’m hungry, tired, and lost in a foreign country. I don’t have any British coins to use a phone booth. Everything is closed.
Everything except the pub!
I take a deep breath in before stepping into The Doghouse. The pub engulfs me in warmth, music, laughter, and a pungent smell of alcohol mixed with something I would rather not identify.
The entire population of Coleford seems gathered here.
In Southern France, my newcomer identity was constantly exposed by a so-called Northern accent (meaning: the absence of Southern accent.) Other kids found my pronunciation so amusing that they often asked me to repeat certain words or phrases, just for entertainment. I hung on to the correct (Northern) way of saying ‘lait’ (milk) for months, until I finally capitulated to the Southern way. The laughing stopped, yet no matter how hard I strived to blend in, I would always be ‘the new kid.’
‘Excuse me. Can you please tell me the way to Scatterford Farm?’ I ask.
I might as well have been speaking Mandarin.
What is the point of always scoring the highest grades in English if I can’t even ask for directions? Technically, I can ask, but the challenge is getting an answer. People stare at me with a blank look, pause for a few seconds, then return to their conversation as if I were a substance-induced figment of their imagination. What’s a funny-looking bloke speaking a strange language doing in Coleford on a Saturday night anyway? It must be a candid camera. Just pretend he’s not here. He’ll eventually go away.
Walking out of The Doghouse, I hear a thump as my confidence drops like a stone, landing on top of my flattened ego.
I feel the urge to drive straight back home, but reality stands in the way: the internship starts the day after tomorrow, and it’s a mandatory part of my curriculum. I have no choice.
I get back in the car and take the road to Newland one more time. At snail pace, with the high beams on.
Every move brought a fresh opportunity to reinvent myself. With new teachers and new classmates, no one would expect me to be a certain person, to behave a certain way. I could start from scratch every single time.
“Are you a good student?” one of the new teachers would always ask.
“I’m Ok”, I would always lie. In French culture, top grades only attract resentment and jealousy from your peers, so I kept a low profile. Flying under the radar was much safer than standing out, and fake modesty became second nature.
Sadly, the trick only worked until the first grades came in. My attempts to blend in were as enjoyable as they were short-lived.
Wait a moment. Is this an alleyway?
‘Scatterford Farm’ says a faded sign, half-hidden by overgrown trees. This is it: my bed and breakfast.
I pull the car up the steep driveway. The front door opens, and a small lady runs out, waving one hand while holding her cardigan closed with the other. Her smile is a beacon in the cold summer night.
I have arrived.
Later that night, my belly full, settled in the warmth of a comfy bed, I lay awake with my old friends: anxiety and excitement.
Who will I be here?
~Cedric, January 2020
(Trip to Scatterford Farm: Summer 1996)
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