The Jeffcoat Step

Today was my last day at work. After a very pleasant farewell, of which more later, I met up with Dad for a quick dinner at Higher Taste and we went along to the Film Archive on Ghuznee Street. Wellington was warming up after the icy blast on Tuesday and Wednesday, and there were crowds of happy people hanging out at the Left Bank night market.  Wellington's feeling really buzzy these days.

At the Film Archive this week, they are screening the Conquest of Everest documentary, filmed on the actual expedition to the summit, with gorgeous colour footage. A hidden gem. I had no idea it even existed, let alone that it was possible to follow the expedition is such complete detail. The camera went as far as the South Col, and possibly would have gone to the top if the extra weight hadn't been a life-or-death consideration.

So the footage stops when Hillary and Tenzing set off for the final two-day push for the summit, and it cuts to the team further back at one of the camps below, pacing and fretting. The summit was still shrouded in mystery, it felt like that experience was for them alone. But the agony of the months of slogging up hills and through snow, as well as the jubilation at their success was shared with the camera, and the whole thing makes for compelling viewing. It should be compulsory in primary schools, this great feat of exploration within living memory.

On the way home from the train station tonight, Dad described to me the Hillary Step, that sheer twelve-metre-high rock face which Hillary wedged his long bony frame into, grip by grip, without knowing what was beyond it. In one way I can't possibly imagine what sheer guts it must take to set out on an expedition like that, attempting something which has ever been done before.

But at the same time, I feel like I'm on the brink of something momentous in my own little world. Ten months ago I met someone wonderful, quite an exceptional human being. He lives in London, so in nine days time I am heading over there to get the chance to spend more than three weeks at a time with him. I'll be away nearly six months, back in New Zealand in early December. 

I'm also taking the opportunity to do something I've always thought about, and work for myself. I'm available for freelance writing and editing for New Zealand clients, and I will be building up my very own website at www.eatyourwords.co.nz.

After five and a half years in France, and coming home last year, the last thing I thought I would be doing is heading back to Europe. In many ways it's a step into the unknown, the realms of the heart, as well as the adventure of setting up on my own account. People keep asking me if I'm excited. I think if I was less certain, then I would have the jitters that you might mistake for excitement. But I'm just so deeply happy to get this chance to do something that matters a great deal to me.

I'll miss you all in Wellington, of course, but it's been a long time now since the people I care about were all in one city, or even one country. I'm setting out, to see what's next, just over the Jeffcoat Step.

Land Of A Thousand Dances

Well it’s been two weeks since I got home and I’m slowly coming back down to earth, and settling into a new groove of work, home, family, friends and hobbies. It’s a wet, blustery Saturday in Paekakariki so I thought I would sit down and write a proper account of what it’s like to come home.

(Well, it feels good, for a start)

Of course you’ll be dying to hear about the new job. Well I’m Communications Advisor at the New Zealand Productivity Commission, which is in one of those buildings with two faces inbetween Lambton Quay and the Terrace. I’m responsible for running all aspects of their comms, from the website, media, publications etc. Basically everything I was doing for green growth at the OECD. The Commission is only 18 months old, but they had some great communications tools already in place, thanks to my predecessor Jenny, who also did a stellar handover in the three days that we overlapped. The team all fits on one floor, so there’s a nice atmosphere, and I think I’m finding my feet. It is a little disconcerting to be new somewhere again, after being so thoroughly immersed in the OECD. But it’s good for me, keeps my brain working.

Everything feels new and familiar at the same time, which is a bit disconcerting. I’ve never commuted into Wellington by train before, so that’s a new experience. The views are extraordinary indeed, but I have renewed sympathy for my old coastal buddies from NZTE, Mike and Chris, whose daily routines were governed by the tyranny of the train schedules, and especially /for the occasions when Tranzmetro would throw a spanner in the works…

I have to say things have been running pretty smoothly so far, but the other morning we stopped at Kaiwharawhara (the last stop before Wellington) and did not start again. After a few minutes another train pulled alongside, but our doors did not open. One of the lovely conductors walked through the carriage saying that she would check with the driver whether ”we would be able to “detrain” you. I was wondering if the logical next step would be ”retraining” us, but was taking nothing for granted. Eventually they opened the doors, and I was one of the few people who got out and stood in the sunshine, pondering the merits of walking or waiting. After a few minutes, a train did indeed pull up, at which point everyone in our train decided to get off and board the new train. If this was Paris, there would have been pushing and shoving, but being New Zealand it was all terribly civilized. People on the new train even stood up if they thought people needed a seat.

Anyway, enough about public transport. What about the coffee! Well as you would expect it is reliably good, but after five years living in France I am soft and out of conditioning, and so a standard double-shot flat white will blow my head off. I have to handle with care. Saturday mornings Dad and I do the shopping at Pak’n’Save Paraparaumu, and the little Streetwise coffee cart next to them provides my weekend fix. (Fairtrade, Sprout, you’ll be pleased to hear.) Last weekend the sun was out and I was inspired to buy one of these KeepCups which you see everywhere here. As you can see, it holds approximately a gallon of coffee.

(Just kidding, it’s a small). Although today, after getting my pre-shopping fix, I did make the mistake of coming home and having two cups of plunger coffee, which generated so much nervous energy that I had to do ninja vacumning just to calm down…

Second week back I surprised myself by starting swing classes! A dear friend, and my partner in crime, is coming down to Wellington in two weeks for the Windy Lindy swing weekend, and I want to go to the dance on Saturday night. The theme is air raid - I wonder if a jaunty beret and a neck scarf will allow me to pass for someone in the Resistance! But more importantly, the footwork for lindy hop still eludes me. So last week I trekked up Cuba Street on a blustery Monday night and found myself back in a beginners class for the first time in about 7 years, and a good 22 years since my first ever rock and roll class, back at Margaret O’Connors on Cuba Street… seems like a lifetime ago now! It wasn’t as painful as it could have been. I sympathise with the guys learning to dance for the first time ever, and I admire their courage. I have to say it was rather gratifying when my turn came around to dance with the teacher, and he congratulated me on how fast I was picking it up… ah, small pleasures.

Am rather slowly working my way around the long list of friends who I have been eager to see since I got back. Commuting, and then swimming at lunchtime does rather cut down the available slots I have to see people, but most of all it’s not even knowing where to start that has induced a sort of social paralysis. And the fact that my new phone has imported all my contacts three times over from different sources, resulting in a confusing list of duplicates…

Some efficiency gains have been made by joining two book groups which involve more than one friend in each! And at the same time I get to brush up on my French, as one of them is the Alliance book group. They are currently reading Les souliers bruns du quai Voltaire, by Claude Izner, a detective book set in Belle Epoque Paris. Looks intriguing. The same week, Paul and Ruth’s group are discussing The Fruit of the Lemon by Andrea Levy. The meetings are in 10 and 11 days time so I’d better get cracking!

And once I’ve finished those, I have one hell of a reading pile awaiting me, courtesy of two of my favourite readers, Mum and Dad. I write the titles down here to remind myself not to succumb every time I pass Unity Books (of all the retail temptations in Wellington, it is the most dangerous).

• Dear American Airlines, Jonathan Miles –one man’s complaint letter gradually encompasses his entire life, a long semi-incoherent poetic rant.
• Italian Shoes, Henning Mankell - Scandinavian bleakness
• The Perfect Summer, Juliet Nicolson – pre-war England seen through the lives of artists
• Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel – England under Cromwell
• Chopin biography by Adam Zamoyski
• … that’s enough to be going on with!

Movies I want to see, if anyone’s keen, include:

• Looper
• The Sapphires (even more for their cover of the song title at the top of this blog)
• Where Do We Go From Here?
• Pitch Perfect (Glee meets Bring It On!)

Now, of course the big question, am I missing France? Well when I left, I knew I wasn’t going to pine for it. After all, five and a half years was enough to have a beautiful love affair with Paris. I’ll always have the experience of having lived there, and I am so incredibly grateful for that. But it was well overdue time to come home and reconnect with life in New Zealand.

There’s a long list of reasons I’m glad I came home, but some of the top ones are:

• Watching All Blacks matches on the sofa with Dad
• Being able to go to things like Wearable Arts with Mum
• Sunday morning walks on the beach (above)
• Catching up with old old friends – and their kids!
• Running into people on Lambton Quay
• Really really outstanding double-shot flat whites from just about any café you care to name.
• The view from my office window – Post Office Square and TSB Arena across to the fountain in Oriental Bay.
• Coming out of the Johnsonville tunnel on a stunning day and seeing the ferry pull out of Wellington harbour. 
• People saying "Thank you driver" when they get off the bus
• Being able to shop at Max, and Farmers, and buy Minx shoes, and merino tops!
• Vogel’s bread, Sanitarium muesli, Rush Munro’s icecream, feijoa juice, the Embassy theatre, the list goes on, and on…

So no, I don’t miss Paris. Not the city itself, not in the sense that you pine for someone who is far away… The one thing I do miss is the friends that I made there. We shared some unforgettable experiences which I will always treasure, and I know those friendships will endure. But, as Hemingway said, Paris is a moveable feast, you take it with you. He may not have known how true that was. I find myself starting sentences with “When I was in Paris…” or “In France they…” more often than I would like. Am hoping that wears off quickly as I don’t think anyone is interested. But more than five years away does change your perspective slightly:

• Who turned the temperature down? Oh that’s right, no insulation or central heating. And it’s mid-October and I’m still wearing thick tights, hats and scarfs.
• What, you mean I have to look up a train timetable? There isn’t one every three minutes?
• Oh, I have to go up and pay at the counter, they don’t bring you the bill…
• It’s strange to hear Kiwi accents everywhere, in the office, lifts, streets. In Paris my head used to snap round anytime I heard those distinctive vowel sounds, I could even spot an Australian at 100 paces. But here it is commonplace.
• People are so friendly! Cafes and shops, everyone says hello, how are you today? And they seem pleased when you tell them! And waitresses smile! Although if I was missing French café life, I just have to go into Simply Paris (as I did the other day) for a dose of that “we know better than you, and we’re still going to ignore you and forget your order”. No, ok that’s not fair, for the most part the service in Paris was perfectly fine. Perhaps it was the French staff afflicted with their own version of homesickness, which results in them descending into a parody of the worst café behaviour.

There is almost an oversupply of French venues in Wellington, where you can get any French wine, cheese, crepes, or magret de canard that your heart, or stomach, might desire. In fact, Dad took me for a “Welcome Home” meal in a French restaurant the other night which consisted of seven courses of duck, theme and variations. So no risk of my tastebuds missing l’Hexagone. Except for, of course, the bread. No matter how hard they try, not even the best French bakers here can replicate the sublimeness of a baguette tradition fresh from the oven. Bread is so simple, but the flour is different here, even the water is different, and there’s nothing to be done. But I have learnt in life that you don’t necessarily get to have everything at once, and you just have to enjoy what you’ve got. In the words of the immortal Rolling Stones: “You can’t always get what you want  But if you try sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need”.

Speaking of food, time for a brief interlude while I go and start dinner. On the menu tonight are slow-cooked lamb neck chops with white beans and a kumara and parsnip mash, to go with a rather nice merlot I picked up in the Hunter Valley, followed by quince and blackberry crumble… Thanks to Dad’s pile of recipes for inspiration, the quinces preserved by Dad last autumn, and the blackberries picked by him in the park at the north end of Paekakariki.

… Spoke too soon, I just found a bookcase of Dad’s I hadn’t inspected yet. As well as the above, I have now acquired a new pile including:

• Then We Came To The End, Joshua Ferris
• Fierce Pajamas, an anthology of humor writing from the New Yorker
• Man On Wire, Philippe Petit
• The God Delusion, by Richard Dawkins (although I gather he has kind of made his point by about halfway through)
• And the assorted works of Nigel Cox (or at least the ones I haven’t already read)
• Plus the remaining Fred Vargas books I haven’t read, which I was faithfully lugging all around France this summer, but kept being given/loaned fascinating books that I just couldn’t pass up.

That should be enough to even stop me speculatively going into the library - apart from their fantastic selection of CDs and DVDs.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check on dinner…

Head For The Hills

Way back in a Paris winter, in the comfort of my apartment, it was a bit hard to read the WWOOFing guidebook and imagine where I might stay this summer, and how the trip might work out. There are over 100 places listed in the book and on the website. But as I read through the listings, I started to form a few principles to help me filter:

• No vegan teetotallers: I am not a big drinker myself, and I don't have to eat a lot of meat, but I found the prissy tone of some listings a bit offputting: "We do not believe in ingesting the toxins found in meat, and if you are rash enough to indulge in the demon drink, may the deity of your choice have mercy on your soul".
• No "musicians welcome" - not only do you have to work, but you have to endure amateur jam sessions afterwards. I gave an especially wide berth to anywhere that mentioned bongos.
• No farms run by single men (for obvious reasons).
• No single women - from fear that they would want endless conversation.
• No "dry toilets", and definitely no yurts - I like my home comforts, and that includes sleeping under a proper roof.

And then I started ringing around. Already in March a lot of places were booked up. Heavens! Or they wanted a month minimum stay. Eventually I found three places which would take me for two weeks. But even when I got on the train to Toulouse on the 1st of August, I still could't visualise what lay ahead.

Breakfast at 300km/hr

I took the TGV to Montpellier, a regional train to Toulouse, and then a bus to St Girons, a little town in the Ariege region.

John picked me up from the bus stop. John and Rose moved over from England 30 years ago as they didn't like the way things were going. They were looking for warmer weather, but Portugal was too expensive. They bought some land to grow vegetables, built a house, and raised 5 children with no indoor plumbing.

It was 8pm by the time I got to the farm. I said hello to the other WWOOFer, a young German girl called Julia. We were staying in a concrete building that resembled a tramping hut, with kitchen and living room downstairs, and sleeping quarters downstairs. I had to get out my head torch to supplement the candle power to cook dinner, and I went up the path to check out the bathroom "facilities".

I had left a Paris apartment in the 16th that morning, with a power shower and its own espresso machine. Ooh boy, I don't think we're in Kansas any more Toto! It's fair to say that the first 24 hours were a bit of a shock. But a couple of summers camping up north had stiffened my backbone, and I quickly got used to the basic conditions. I managed to whip up a reasonable frittata with goats cheese and slept like a log.

The first few days it was too damp to work in the garden, so we were put to work chopping wood and strimming the lower garden. Julie had already been WWOOFing in Canada, and even had the flannel shirt to prove it. I made a brave attempt at chopping wood, but quickly bowed to her superior talent and brawn in that department. Work started at 9am and went for 4 hours. In return we got a roof over our heads and all the organic fruit and vegetables we could eat.

After I learn to use a strimmer - results (I)

 After I learn to use a strimmer - results (II)

After our work was done for the day, we were left to our own devices. We were at least 5 kilometres up a dirt road from the nearest town or public transport, but it was amazing how fast the days went. After lunch, there were books and papers to read, diaries and postcards to write and hills to explore. 

 Exploring the valley.

 Saturday is market day in St Girons.

 Local residents (I)

  Local residents (II) - Max the terror (Oh sure, he looks cute now...)

After a couple of days, Klaas, a young Dutch guy turned up. He took one look at the bongos in the corner and said "How glad are you guys that I don't play those!". Klaas proved to be pretty good at the wood-chopping too, so he and Julie were assigned to roll logs down the steep hill to the creek, and haul them up the other side for splitting.

After a few days the weather warmed up and I started on the serious weeding, and that was pretty hard going. I nominated myself as chief cook, so that we didn't have three people in the kitchen at once, and so about 6pm I would get started on pumpkin daal, aubergine curry or whatever I was cooking that night. Julie and Klaas were vegetarian, and with no fridge to keep meat in I was happy to cook without it.  Once we ate and the sun set, I was hard-pressed to stay awake.

Once or twice the grown-up children of the family turned up from town in the evenings, bearing bottles of wine and sausages. It was very generous of them, but Klaas being tee-totaller and neither Julie or I drinking very much meant that there wasn't a lot of common ground. I would have been perfectly happy to keep the peace and quiet of the valley intact - but unfortunately they were also keen bongo players and so one night I was treated to a bongo serenade as I tried vainly to get to sleep.

Julia and Klaas lighting a fire.

On the second Saturday, we went in at 5am to set up the stand for the market - and watched the sun rise over St Girons. We had to get in early so as to park the vans down the narrow side streets and set up the tables around them, as later on there would have been no room to move. From the moment we arrived it was all action - quickly unloading the vans before parking them, and then setting up the tables and putting out everything for display. I barely had time to snatch a few photos. We hadn't even finished when the first customers arrived, the old women with their caddies who have been awake for hours. It was only once all the vegetables were laid out for display that someone went to get coffees and I was sent to the bakery for pain au chocolat - called chocolatine in that region.

Sitting in the square in the morning light, watching the market come alive around me - six weeks later typing this in Sydney, I can still taste the pastry and the coffee, and feel the energy of the experience flow through me. You know that some moments will just stay with you forever.

For most of the second week, the temperature hit 30 degrees and so we started work a bit earlier. Once we were done, cooling off in the organic swimming pool seemed like the only sensible option, goldfish or no goldfish.

Eventually it was time to leave. It was a fantastic experience and I learnt a lot, but I think I was ready to return to civilisation. After my holiday with Dad there last year, the Pyrenees are one of my favourite regions, and I'm so glad I got to go back.

 On the bus back to Toulouse - farewell to my blue hills.

 View from the hotel in Carcassonne - civilisation! And a proper shower!

All the photos.

Woman cannot live by bread alone

…but I’m going to give it a pretty good shot. It’s fair to say that WWOOFing, and this summer over all, has been an unqualified success. Organic vegetables and goats’ cheese in the Pyrenees, and now baking bread in Normandy – this is the way to live. My only regret is that I didn’t do it years ago!

Am starting with the current experience first as it is the freshest. Arrived at the Les Copains bakery on Monday and met the team: Erik (Dutch), Seth (Canadian) and Baboosh (a Black Lab). Am staying in a little attic above the bakery – but on a double bed with a real mattress, this is luxury!

Now my days move to a different rhythm again from the past few weeks. Was up at 5am yesterday to weigh and shape the dough we kneaded the night before, into loaves and baguettes, which are then set aside to rise. Make the ritual pot of Earl Gray tea, the bag dunked directly into the jug. Erik puts on the rock and roll and grooves his way around the kitchen. Cut out the mini pizzas and top with local goats’ cheese, organic tomatoes and emmenthal. Seth picks up the wooden paddle and shoves the loaves 3 or 4 at a time into the oven. The baguettes are more fragile but he does it with the ease of long practice. I chop the brioche dough (peppered with chunks of apples from the orchard) and stuff into muffin tins. Mix the financiers (butter, sugar, eggs, ground almonds and flour) and dollop into their tins.

By now it’s 8am, and we rip open the first baguette out of the oven and slather it with butter and honey. Erik pours the coffee as the bread starts coming out of the oven. They sort and pack the loaves into big wooden crates and load into the van. I have a moment to get changed out of the baggy t-shirt they lent me into some more appropriate gear, and I sweep the floors quickly, and then we are off to the weekly organic market in Honfleur.

It’s a gray morning, fog has rolled in from the channel and shows no signs of lifting. But the market is bustling at 9am, all the stalls are already set up when we arrive. We jump out of the van and quickly fold out tables, and unload crates. The clients start arriving before we have even finished, many of them regulars, who wait patiently until the bread has been set out, and then they really have first choice. I am in charge of putting out the little wooden price tickets and get mixed up between complet and demi-complet.

After the first rush eases, Erik turns to me and says “I have to go park the van, are you ok for a bit?” I nod mutely, and turn to my public. I have to check the tickets occasionally but then it starts to get easier. I can even add up two amounts and produce a total in French without muttering the English under my breath. Then one woman orders several different loaves and multiple biscuits, brioches and tarts. The panic shows on my face, and the next customers, a couple of men, take pity on me and one whips out his smartphone to use the calculator function. By the time Erik gets back, I am flying. Bonjour Madame, que desirez-vous? Et avec ceci? Cela vous ferait 5,80. C’est moi qui vous remercie, bonne journée. Five years of living in France and I can speak fluent market, right up to the little twist you put on the top of the paper bag…

In the lulls we chat to the other stallholders, the bolshie fruit and vegetable woman, the cider specialist who opens a bottle for us to share, and the goats’ cheese seller who brings over some of her faisselle (like cottage cheese, but fresh) with herbs and garlic, which we spread on bread and pass around. I’m never going to be able to eat Boursin ever again.

I take a break for half an hour to wander around Honfleur. I pick up a financier to take with me and bite into it looking out at the gray harbour. My brain goes into meltdown – it’s SO good. I’ve never tasted anything so fresh. I can feel stars dancing behind my eyes and my tastebuds lift off into orbit. This whole experience has ruined me forever – I will never get any pleasure from anything unless it’s organic, direct from the producer and freshly picked-squeezed-baked etc.

Eventually the bread disappears and the stream of people slows. Erik goes to get the van and I manage to sell the last half-loaf to one little old lady who didn’t get an early start like the rest of them. We fold down the tables and fold ourselves into the van. I fall asleep as we drive out of Honfleur and wake up as we get home. I take the end of a loaf and slice fresh tomatoes onto it. They’re so good they don’t even need salt. I eat and fall into bed. It’s 2pm and I’ve been up for 9 hours already. Siesta time.


In the afternoon Erik goes off to make deliveries and Seth goes horse-riding. At 6pm Thierry, the assistant, turns up to start the dough for the next day and I give him a hand. We knead for an hour and a half and then it’s done. I am completely beat but blissfully happy…


Had a sleep-in today, only had to get up at 7.30 to do pizzas and sablés (like shortbread but slightly less butter). More kneading this morning and feeding the sourdough starter, for a change we are baking tonight for tomorrow’s market. Starting again at 7pm – but for a bit of light relief this afternoon Seth took me to his friend’s cider farm for a degustation. She showed us the old cider press and the new machines they use now, and walked us through the whole process. The tasting itself started with the cider (sec, demi sec and doux) and went via the Pommeau (aperitif) through the 5, 10 and 15 year old Calvados. I know what you’re thinking, how am I even writing this now, but the glasses were very small. I still left with a few bottles, but they may not make it all the way back to New Zealand!

More bulletins as time permits but if you want to see ALL the photos so far, they are here.

Farewell to Paris... for now

Am well into the first week of the rest of my life. The last weekend in Paris was a whirlwind of goodbyes and packing. Having people around for afternoon tea on Saturday was great, at one point we had 11 people all crammed into the apartment. It was very efficient, not only did I get to say goodbye to a bunch of people at once, but I also got rid of a bunch of stuff.

Q, baby Winston, Karen and Alina.

 Gosia and Josh.

 Me with Nathalie. Sorry to everyone else, I got distracted and forgot to take more photos. When you consider that it took me four hours to make people coffee...Incidentally, if I ever offer you coffee, just say ni, it's quicker!

But I did get the occasional break. Monday we had a special trip to... the dentist. I held baby Winston while Karen got her teeth drilled. To celebrate it being over, we stopped in to the Hermes store and had chocolate cake. The store is a former swimming pool in art deco style, you can still see the original tiles and gilded columns. The teas cost at least 10 euros each - no I'm not joking. So we skipped the tea and split a cake between us, eating it veery slooowly to make it last.  

Packing - from this...

 to this...

On Tuesday, the movers were due to come any time between 7am and 7pm. I got up at 6am to make one last coffee before I packed it into the last box. This may have been self-defeating. At any rate, the movers didn't come until... 5pm. I was pacing the floor by this stage, And when the driver realised that it was on the 3rd floor, no lift, well he was not a happy man. But we managed to get them out the door. And oh the relief!

Tuesday night Janey, Nathalie and I managed to fit in one more restaurant, this time Thai down in the 15th.

I've been planning this move for about the last year. In fact I nearly bought a one-way ticket for the World Cup. But no matter how long I've been planning it, there's no way to know what it was going to feel like to have those "lasts". The last 80 restos. The last walk back to my apartment from the metro. The last time I wake up in my apartment. You never know what it's going to feel like until it's actually happening. And it felt... strange. Like jetlag without the long flight first. Like an out-of-body experience. You see yourself in the moment but it's hard to realise it.

On Wednesday I was up bright and early again, to tidy up the last loose ends of the apartment and give back the keys before lunchtime. One last load of laundry - run to the post office while it is drying - return the modem - clean the fridge. I was running around so much, there was hardly a moment to stop and reflect. But as I walked out the door, I turned and said thank you to my last Paris apartment.

By some great chance my friends from up north were in Paris for the day so I had someone to have lunch with. My train was originally at 3.13pm, but Eurostar emailed me to let me know it would be delayed, so I had time to stay for coffee. When I got to the station, they announced that the Olympic torch would be passing through the Chunnel ahead of the train. Ok, I can live with that.

 (Photo from five years ago, my first trip to London after I moved to Paris. The haircut has changed a lot since then but has come more or less full circle...)

So I left Paris on a bit of a high note, but of course it was only my first attempt, a dry-eye run, if you like. I'll be passing back through Paris 3 or 4 times before I finally fly out on September 14. Of course now I don't live there anymore, so I'll just be back as a tourist, crashing on pull-out sofas. And I've said most of my goodbyes already - goodbye to my job, my apartment, and most of my friends.

London is a different entry, the first step in my long journey home. I feel like I'm taking the scenic route back to New Zealand, after years of living at Paris pace, I'm taking a few months to slow down and chill out, and have some great experiences along the way. I woke up today, and before I was really awake, I had a moment of missing the park near my office. A very small, narrow memory of Paris filtering through the thrill of this new adventure. I'm sure there will be many more moments like that. I don't think you ever really say goodbye to Paris... just au revoir. 

More  photos.

Leaving Las Vegas

Elvis has left the building.**

As of 6pm today (well 6.45 by the time I finished clearing my cupboard), I no longer work for the OECD.
Wow.

Walking home from the metro tonight in the teeming rain, reflecting on my last day. I know a few people are probably wondering, what does it feel like to finish work at the OECD? After all, this was the first tangible round of goodbyes, to people I have seen week in, week out for years. After 3.7 years, it feels like the end of an era, but also the start of something.

The farewells started last week on a team retreat, and then continued with various coffees, lunches, and my final trip to the pool with my swimming buddy.

 I didn't know at all how my last day was going to feel, or how it would pan out. I had a list a mile long of things I wanted to tidy up and get squared away, and I have been pretty fixated on crossing things off this list for a few weeks now. But deep down I knew my last day wouldn't, couldn't be about that. I launched a new series of papers and sent out my final newsletter, so those were two big things that I could be justifiably proud of. And then I felt this wash of lightness, of release. After all, I only had a few hours left in the building. What was more important, filing every last scrap of paper or having a proper leave-taking?

So I went to lunch - for two hours. I didn't mean to. I had emailed the team the week before to say anyone who wants to join me for a sandwich in the park is welcome. But then summer has signally failed to arrive (ok weather gods, what's up this year - please!) and so I suggested the canteen. It's close, quick, relatively cheap, and coming from a culture with no institutional school lunches, but growing up on American sitcoms, I get a kick out of lining up with my tray.

But the team were having none of it, and dragged me out to a bakery / brasserie on posh Avenue Victor Hugo. Lots of big glass windows and light, surrounded by patisseries (millefeuille au cafe thank you very much!). And then that was when it hit me. How very very lucky I am, and have been, to work with such fantastic people. I think I have lost sight of that in the day to day grind, but the people at the OECD are some of the most talented, dedicated and warm human beings you hope to could come across.  The collegiality, the helpfulness, with no expectation of a quid pro quo - I have come across this before (especially at NZTE, where I am still in touch with a large number of kindred spirits) but what is stunning is how it is just endemic in such a huge organisation, despite the staggering workloads and for some, the uncertainty of employment in a project-based organisation. And sure, you meet some people along the way who haven't learned to play nicely with others, but you get that everywhere - and that's not what today was about.

Back at my desk I started writing a farewell email. There were so many people I wanted to thank, for their professionalism, but also their sheer warmth, which makes all the difference. I couldn't help include the proverb that is almost compulsory in any farewell email written by a Kiwi:

He aha te mea nui o te ao

What is the most important thing in the world?

He tangata, he tangata, he tangata

It is the people, it is the people, it is the people

And thinking partly about the high-stress situations we find ourselves in sometimes, me included, I added: Be kind to oneanother.

Well, I sent this out and kept clearing up my personal network folders. And then the emails started coming in, one after the other, faster than I could answer. People rang me to say goodbye. My team came in as they left for the weekend. The French "kiss on both cheeks" turned into proper Kiwi hugs. And the last two hours just turned into this wonderful celebration of all the fantastic people I have worked with over the last few years. I felt slightly bad that I didn't organise a larger farewell, but I am not sure I could have handled such an outpouring of emotion in one room. At one point I put down the phone and nearly cried "I take it back! I'm staying!!".

6pm came and went, and I was starting to feel reckless. I was meeting friends for dinner so I didn't have the luxury of time. Out went the years of archived notebooks, scribbles that only I could understand, draft reports that were finalised long ago. File, file, file, delete went the emails. Was the essential passed on? Yep. Would the world stop if I missed one thing? Nope. Luckily I was due to meet someone at the metro, so beyond a certain point I just had to go. I cleared the last few snacks and herbal tea bags out of my desk, gave up my badge, picked up the backpack with my flippers and sports towel, and walked out the door. And as I walked the short distance from the office to the metro, I ate my last madelaine.


So the short answer is that I feel happy and sad at the same time. Happy, because of the enormous luck I have had to meet and work with such great people. Sad that this is the moment I have to leave them all behind. But I know that the right thing for me is heading back to New Zealand. Going home feels like coming full circle and starting new adventures all at the same time.

And I know that I'll find a job that I will love almost as much back in New Zealand, managing web content in the public sector, with more incredible people. Because I'm lucky that way.

** not a reference to the horribly depressing movie with Nicholas Cage, but just the terribly catchy Sheryl Crow song, which always comes to mind at big life moments like these.

Kiwi As

A few weeks ago I set out to explore the Belleville neighbourhood (yes, as in Triplets of). It's not far from my place, but is further away from the centre of town so I don't go in that direction often. I knew there was a park, and a big immigrant community, particularly Chinese, but not much else.

Belleville metro is at the crossroads of four arrondissements, the 10th, 11th, 19th and 20th. In fact there's a building nearby with "Aux Quatre Arrondissements" carved in the stone across the front. It's the sort of area with a very active street life, people just hanging around for no apparent reason, and everyone seeming to co-exist reasonably peacefully.


(Some other triplets...)

The main drag, rue de Belleville, is lined with Asian restaurants - mostly Chinese, but some Thai and Japanese. But there are also little trendy cafes and a "fine products" deli, signs of encroaching gentrification.
I turned down a side street, and then another, and found myself at the bottom of Belleville park. It is unlike most other Parisian parks in that it spills down a hillside, and so has enticing pathways and staircases to climb, some of them overhung with cooling greenery.
 

It's a fair climb to the top by Paris standards, although nothing for any practiced Wellingtonian. But no matter how great the effort involved, it is totally worth it:

 

And if you're hot and bothered when you get up there, there's a great little cafe across the road: 

 There is also a community garden, with what may be grape vines (please bear in mind I am horticulturally ignorant).

The park is full of locals on a nice day, just hanging out and enjoying the sunshine. I did the same for a couple of hours. Then I decided to cut down a side street to take a different route home - and stopped dead in my tracks when I saw this place:

Yes you read it right, Kiwizine. Say it out loud... geddit?? Ah-hah. Turns out it's a collective run by a young New Zealand chef and his French wife. They started it with another couple who have since moved back to New Zealand. They are only open on Friday and Saturday nights, and they have one set price menu for 17.50, plus drinks. They do "cuisine du monde" and you eat whatever they feel like making. How extraordinary to stumble across this in Paris.

I knew I had to come here with a fellow Kiwi, so a couple of weeks later I rounded up the gang on a Saturday night and we came here for dinner. I called ahead to check the menu and luckily everyone could eat it. Tomato - mozzarella salad to start, then rack of lamb with grilled aubergine and finely diced vegetables, and strawberry pannacotta. Delicious.

Once we had eaten, we were still wide awake and it was a beautiful summer's evening, so we went up the top of the park for a view over the city by night.

L-R: Melissa, me, Josh, Gosia, Alina (photo taken by Dorian)

We came, we saw - and then we went across the road to the little cafe I mentioned earlier and found an empty table with a scrabble board sitting on it. I couldn't resist and forced everyone to play a game with me. Scrabble for six still takes a while so we were there until midnight. The cafe was buzzy and full of young locals having a great old time, half of them playing various other board games. I will freely admit that this may not be the glamorous Paris lifestyle you all think I lead, but it was the best night I've had in ages.

Meredith was in town visiting this weekend, and on a whim I took her to discover Kiwizine. They had seafood tacos (odd, bit it kind of worked), mackerel in a sweet and sour Malaysian-style sauce, with a VERY kiwi-style potato salad, and creme caramel. It was all delicious, and the main course was outstanding. We met Claire, the wife, and Jonno the chef came out from the kitchen to say hi. He's from Hamilton and after 9 years in France, his accent is still profoundly "cheers bro". He had just spent a month in Asia, which explains why I hadn't met him the first time, and also explains the Malaysian-style fish. Apparently the restaurant has been open for four years, and they live right around the corner from my current apartment. I'm leaving town in less than three weeks! Life is just not fair sometimes... but at least I have made this amazing discovery.

If you ever get the chance, I strongly urge you to go to Kiwizine. It's unique.