Two Europeans in Paris

When the Channel Tunnel and Eurostar first came into being, there was a certain spring in the step of people who lived in the south of England. Paris was suddenly gloriously within reach for a short break, and trouble free thanks to our European passports and health insurance cards. It was enticing to save up and grab a weekend in Paris, and we did several times, with the kids.

Last time we went, around ten years ago, the children had become adults, soon to leave for their own adventures. There was a feeling we had 'done' Paris (how dare we!), and we resorted to rarer pleasures such as visiting Pere Lachaise cemetery, eating chrysanthemums in a Chinese hotpot restaurant and walking the highly alternative the Petite Ceinture walkway.

Since then Brexit has made our relationship with Paris more troubled but for months I've had a yen to return. Finally, with autumn leaves falling, Nigel and I managed it. The sun shone for our promenade along the Rive Gauche, and made the newly restored Notre Dame gleam. 

The museums with which we had once been familiar opened up again like new treasures.

But our favourite moment occurred in the Musee d'Orsay. We were wandering amongst the Scandinavian Art Nouveau when an American couple marched past. 

'Remember,' said the man, 'We have to leave time for that other museum you wanted to visit. What was it called again?'

'The Louvre.'

Nigel nudged me. Even twenty-four hours spent in the immensity of the Louvre would merely scratch the surface. They had less than half a day before them.

'It's okay,' said the woman. 'We can spend another hour here before the Louvre.'

In finding this funny, we were maybe just being snobby - laughing at tourists less clued up than ourselves. But a more charitable interpretation would be that the Americans' ignorance gave us the welcome chance to feel like Europeans again, even after Brexit. 

Better to light a single candle

In October, I wrote that I had been out protesting/demonstrating and that it made me feel empowered in the face of a scary world.

Things have since got even scarier. 

But: “It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.”

So in the days running up to the election, in between working hours, I leafleted a couple of streets on behalf of the People’s Vote Campaign (suggesting tactical voting) and another four streets on behalf of the Lib Dems.  I also helped to collect dozens of letters aimed at stopping the expansion of our local airport (if it happens, it will greatly increase carbon emissions) and also sewed logos on a few tee shirts for Extinction Rebellion.

It was better to be doing something than sitting and fretting.  Or at least it would have been, if I hadn’t run myself into the ground and succumbed to a heavy cold.

And now, the national election has gone against everything I’d prayed for. 

As Annabel said “Woe, woe, and three times woe”.

But on the bright side, in St Albans we got a brilliant new Lib Dem MP, Daisy Cooper.

And concerning the National Tragedy, all the campaigning work I put in means I now have a copper- bottomed excuse to ‘curse the darkness’ or grumble.

But being a positive person, I’ll probably do something more constructive instead…

…like tunneling all the way to the Continent and leading the rest of my life there.

Protesting is good for you

In the week that I turned fifty-seven, I protested with Extinction Rebellion and marched for a People’s Vote on Brexit.

My back hurts a bit, but my spirits are in good shape. 

I’m frightened about what will happen to the economy of this country and to the welfare of our citizens should Brexit occur.  I’m terrified of what will happen to our planet as Global Heating ramps up.

Many of my friends lie awake at night fretting about the future of their children and grand-children.  They are right to do so. 

But my way to be at peace with my conscience and get a good night’s sleep is to protest.  I  am signing the petitions, writing the letters to MPs and I’m getting out there with flags and banners and demonstrating and marching.

Feeling powerless is destructive to the body and mind, but grasping whatever agency we have is empowering.  It has been better for me to take action than to sit at home following the newsfeeds and gnashing my teeth in impotent rage.

I’ve had challenging conversations while handing out leaflets, and I’ve also been touched by the kindness of others, handing me home-baked flapjack.

So in trying to keep my country and my planet alive, I’ve come to feel more alive too.

Annabel with her beautiful banner

These Boots Weren’t made for Brexit

I’ve been enjoying my new foot recently.  Gradually over the nine months since surgery last summer, it has been becoming more robust.

So Nigel and I were able to chance the second People’s Vote March last Saturday, although we cheated and headed straight to the rally in Parliament Square on the basis there would be something to lean against there.

We straight away found a good stretch of empty railing, but soon realised why it was vacant – it was just behind a small bunch of Brexit demonstrators and it looked as if we were of their number.   Before our faces appeared in the Mail as Brexit supporters, we slunk off.

But, having done what we could by joining the march and the petition and writing to our MP, my feet served quite another purpose the rest of the week.

They have been getting me out of earshot of the incessant roilings of the Brexit debacle.

 I went to Greenwich with friends, climbed the hill to the observatory and revelled in clear blue views across London.  From up there, you would never guess how troubled it is.

And I visited Heartwood with Nigel where we were soothed by the song of skylarks.

It lifted our hearts.   Maybe they should pipe it into the chamber of the House of Commons.

Never Cross a Zebra

I seem to be having a Zebra Moment.

On the news there was one single item that was not about Brexit, and it was that zebras have stripes to confuse  horseflies  – apparently the flies dislike landing on stripes.

Hmmm – you’d think that the strong smell of zebra would still be an attraction to the little insects.

However, lately, I have had a lot of zebra sightings – enough to check the research.

For instance, there's the horse in zebra’s clothing which sits at a café table in Brussels train station. Unlike an ordinary horse, he seems not to be troubled by horseflies.

(Although perhaps he has a sad expression, owing to Brexit.)

At half term in a pub in Ghent, we saw not a horse, but a bull dressed as a zebra.  (Okay, so my picture shows there was ALSO a bull dressed as a tiger, but it’s a zebra theme I’m following here.)  We also ate in a great restaurant on Zebra Street.

In neither place did horseflies ruin our repast.

Our friend John has wood-turned a bowl from zebrano – not a fly to be seen.

Then, last weekend, Carenza turned up wearing a zebra-print jacket.

 

I checked behind her, but there were no horseflies in pursuit, so the research must be correct.

I admit, I doubted the findings, but my own extensive research conclusively proves they are water-tight.

And okay - I can't completely avoid Brexit.  PLEASE SIGN THE PETITION : -

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/241584

People’s Vote

I had plans for Saturday.  Perran and Carenza were joining us and we had tickets for the Space Shifters exhibition at the Hayward Gallery.

But there was something else going on that day – something that hadn’t been part of the plan, but that we all really cared about.

The train up to London was bulging with people dressed in blue, trimmed with yellow stars.  One small boy was carrying a blue banner saying “I missed football for this.”

It was the march for a people’s vote on the final deal for BREXIT – a chance to vote when we really knew what we were voting for.

“But we couldn’t march anyway, Clare, because you’re still on crutches,” said Nigel.

The Space Shifters exhibition was excellent, playing with our senses, the sculptures making us feel unbalanced, as if we might float away or trip over into an abyss.

Thing is, since the votes for BREXIT and Trump, I have felt like that anyway, disorientated and stumbling on shifting ground.

As we came out into the sunshine, I said “We could still get to Parliament Square in time for the rally.”

So we did – I clunked along the South Bank and Westminster Bridge and found a sunny wall to lean on outside the Houses of Parliament as the marchers surged in.

I spotted at least three people in wheelchairs, one breathing through a tube. Made crutches seem a pretty minor problem.

Carenza kept winding me up that we were going to get “kettled” but there was no sign of that and the fact that in the UK we can still demonstrate peacefully against government policy began to help me feel I was standing on solid ground again.