My ping-pong, love-hate relationship with the French has spanned the ages. Being East Indian with a Filipino wife, I’ve always felt a sense of prejudice against us. A sense of inferiority projected against us. Having encountered one slight after another, about to give up and go home, a kindness from the most unexpected source overwhelms us. Vistas of this great land remain with me when all others in the world are forgotten.
Our recent sojourn in Nice underlined all our own prejudices and, once again, turned them inside out.
Heaving four bags and two teens out of our train from Paris, we pushed ourselves through the crowd and progressed to the front of the taxi rank. One look at us, and we were refused four times before being taken on by, what appeared to be, an Arab driver. Whether it was our looks, or our number, or the luggage we carried, who knows.
We arrived at Le Méridien at 1 Promenade des Anglais, at the edge of a shimmering Mediterranean, beside the old town, its Saleya flower market—Marché aux Fleurs—captured so beautifully in Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. We were tired, hungry but expectant. Our boys had caught sight of a McDonald’s next door.
There was an unprecedented line-up in front of reception. After half-an-hour, we were served. “Sorry sir, all our standard rooms are taken. It’s a national holiday.”
“But we booked two rooms months ago.”
“Pardonné, all we have available is a suite facing the sea. It should accommodate you all for the time being. Unfortunately, even after a discount, it will cost 30% more.” Thus was our welcome to the once-regarded Jewel of the Mediterranean.
It was already six in the evening. Where else could we go? Glancing at Laura, I capitulated. We parked our bags in the suite. Led by our boys to their favourite restaurant, we gorged ourselves on Double Cheeseburgers Royale, Frites with Sauce Tandoori and Coca-Cola.
We retreated to our suite thereafter. By the time we unpacked, played bridge with the boys, it was bedtime for me.
I woke up with a start. The radio-clock beside me showed 2 am. I got up and drew the curtains quietly aside. Our room was floodlit. It was a full moon. Still in my pyjamas, I opened our balcony door and stepped outside, still in the warmth of summer. In front of me lay the Mediterranean, moonlight reflecting off its rippling water. A cruise ship in the distance. The beach deserted. Palm trees to border this idyllic scene. Another unforgettable memory.
The next morning, after breakfasting at Le Méridien, we strolled the promenade, then U-turned through a park towards the old town. An old, wizened woman accosted us. “Look,” she pointed to, what seemed to be, a large, heavy gold ring. “What should we do with it? Why don’t you take it?”
I quickly walked away, herding my family with me as fast as possible. “Pops. Why did you do that? It was a gold ring.”
“Do you remember the Canadian couple we met in Paris? What did they warn us about? “
“Beware of the latest tourist scam. An old woman comes to you having spied a gold ring and wants to share it with you. Then she offers her share to you for $20. Don’t fall for it. The ring is brass.”
On our walk, we had passed a laundromat. The next day, while my family slept, I rounded up our dirty clothes to clean. Arriving at the store, I realized I had no detergent, coins nor knew how to read the French instructions on the washer. A cleaning lady came in, carrying a bucket and a mop. She spoke a little English. “I have coins, soap if you wish to buy. Come, let me help you.” I rushed to find a note from my wallet.
As she mopped the linoleum floor and scraped gunk off the steel basin, Chloé began to chat. There was no one else in the store. She bent down to pick up a local newspaper off the floor and pointed at the headline “Another 200 illegal immigrants seek shelter in Nice.”
“My son was discharged from the army two years ago for an injury. He has to walk on crutches. Two years and he’s still waiting for his army pension. I have to pay for him from all my little jobs. I have old age pension, which doesn’t even cover my rent. And those immigrants get free hotel rooms, money to spend and food. Where is the justice?” The photos showed they were brown, the same as I was. Yet, for the first time in France, I believed I was treated as an equal. I was regarded as a fellow companion, not anything else.
Finishing off my laundry, I left.
“Monsieur, monsieur !” I heard the cleaner’s voice. She was limping towards me with my wallet in her hand. “You left your wallet on the washer when you exchanged coins with me.”
The wallet probably contained 300 euros ($500 US). Nothing was missing. I offered her a 20 euro note as a thank you. She refused. Despite her poverty, she asked nothing of me, resisting the temptation of taking and hiding my wallet.
Our family spent a week in Nice, as a base to explore the region. We travelled 150 km to Grass for €1.50, marvelling at the deep gullies we traversed over narrow Roman stone bridges—at a hundred shades of greenery bespeckled with brightly coloured flowers. Another bus took us to a chapel in Vence, constructed by Henri Matisse, who also designed and created the nuns’ vestments—a thank you for nursing him to health after cancer. Vence itself is a medieval castle with motorcars forbidden near its square. Another architectural wonder.
Days flew by leaving us well satisfied and once again, in love with everything French. We woke up at 6 am to catch our train to Italy at eight.
“Sorry sir, the rail workers are on their usual summer strike. Your train has been delayed 8 hours. Please come back at 4 pm.” The 4 pm train was further delayed until 8 pm.
Tears rolled down Laura’s eyes. “We’re going to miss our connection to Italy. Our hotel rooms cancelled. Our holiday ruined.”
I smashed that ping-pong back at the French with all my might.
Would I ever go back to France? In a heartbeat. Could I ever reconcile myself to the vagaries of the Gallic character and mind? Never.
