When she was staying with Mum last year she became very ill, and Mum took care of her, and so is credited with saving her life, and so was offered a stay in Elizabeth's flat in Paris. There we go.
It was The Most brilliant living space I have ever been in. I fell in love utterly. More than anything there was just freedom and creativity oozing from every corner. A little rough, a little ramshackle, wooden floorboards, rooms just thrown together (it seems) in an organic sort of layout, meaning there were tiny wee corridors - the French flat version of Edinburgh Old Town, perhaps. But it must have cost a heck of a lot.- oh and balconies, with plantpots. The main 'space', shall we call it, was a long room with great [French windows, are they called?] all down one side, onto the balconies, and divided into two by a curtain. One half, next to the kitchen, had the dining table, and the other half had just a pool table and a couch, that I slept on. Also there were several bookshelves, books, art material, stacks of framed paintings, piles of books, 'objets d'art'...oh, and a large model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling above the dining table, that sort of thing. She collected a heck of a lot - beautiful things from all over the world - little sculptures, paintings on cloth and paper, beaded jewellery draped around lampshades, and the most gorgeous rugs and textiles. It is perfect, so much so that the bathroom is slightly grotty and the showerhead sometimes comes off (you must understand that this is perfect, these are the perfect living conditions, I hate shininess.
This was a long time ago and remembering it, in the light of what I have just said, gives me hope. I have stayed at rich people's houses and have hated it - beautiful houses, family houses. I just can't do it. I can't feel at home there. Now, we must understand that though I said 'rich houses', though richness seems to typify the houses I am thinking of when I am there, I do not think, actually, that the problem is wealth. Because I love Morland House - which is obviously big and ancient and not poor. Is that because I have basically grown up there and the issue is 'feeling I belong'? Also, the Anokhi Farm - where the people have loads of money and the houses are beautifully and intelligently designed. (These people are textile/fashion designers in India and their house is just gorgeous. And I can imagine myself living there.) Perhaps it is just an issue of 'too much carpet'. There are all kinds of things at work here probably, but I really do balk at *too much comfort!* Insular houses and insular lifestyles.
But I was telling you about India.
I'm in Paris, feeling very French, and thinking that perhaps in the future I will be French. I would love to revisit all the wonderful places we saw in Paris - the utter joy of everywhere, the creativity and the marks of so many great men. It was very inspiring. And all French people are beautiful. We left a few days before Bastille Day. We saw the flags up on the Champs-Elysees, and we saw aeroplanes practising flying down it. And then it was time to go to India. I didn't want to go.
The way I got to India was: first on the Eurostar, to London. Then to Heathrow. Then fly to Delhi, overnight. It was very disorientating. At Heathrow after a day of travelling I didn't know where I was, which country, no idea. I take my stash of UK coins out of the secret pocket of my bag - 'lots of 2p coins' I say to myself - the phrase '2p coins' is oddly familiar, which is comforting, and its exhilarating in a small way that something should be familiar. I have to search under piles of obscurity for the meaning of 2p coins - why, where have I been? I have forgotten about Paris.
WH Smith is another of those exhilaratingly comforting places. There is even some territorial pride in what I feel here. Pride in myself that here is something I'm familiar with - it's mine.
This part of this airport that I'm in is glamorous in such an Asian way, I feel. All these perfume shops and things. Like Dubai or somewhere. All the attendants and people are also all what people'd call 'Asian', and most of the other passengers-in-waiting are too. Non-glamour: a group of Bulbuls standing two by two in a line giggle and eagerly look and nudge each other at an English guy. They are around fifteen, gawky, uniformed. He is tall, droopy, in shorts, curly lightish hair, scruffy and nondescript and average/less than average-looking and I feel so annoyed at them. And Mr Sir barks 'where's your partner?' because all these teenagers must have partners, and they let themselves, how spastic.
[*One Indian phenomenon - the teenage girl who is unaware of her breasts, bodily hair and appearance in general. Funny, because most Indian women are acutely aware of their femininity, right down to the smallest graceful gorgeous girls in my school in my village, who danced coyly with mehndi proudly on their hands. And there was such a huge understanding of what it is to be a woman, and a being-women-together feel. That was in a village setting.
And I am annoyed that an English muchly-pierced alternative-looking girl is wildly incongruous and stared at in suspicion and distrust.
...oh, did I not post this? To be continued. I'm probably in the middle of some train of thought here, but zjooppp....
