Chapter 11
I can’t believe I am finally in Antibes on the French Riviera.
What a journey to get here. I enjoyed my seven days at sea on the SS ?le de France, even though she was still very much a troop ship.
The long train journey down through France to the Riviera was more of an ordeal.
(But it did have one late compensation!) The train was not comfortable, no sleeping cars, no food or drinks available.
One simply jumped out at stations with open cafés and quickly bought what supplies one could before jumping back on the train.
Station platforms were crowded with soldiers and other travellers, which made that particular venture fun on occasion.
I saw lots of war damage as we travelled through the countryside, but there was some evidence of towns starting to rebuild.
By the time we pulled out of Marseille station hours later, the train was full of Allied soldiers, which is when the late compensation I mentioned above arrived in my carriage.
Seeing the battered industrial landscape of the boatyards, marinas and other businesses along the coast was sobering.
Too difficult to even think about the events that had taken place here such a short while ago.
Although I know I will have to do more than think about them when I start to write my pieces for Max.
But as the train travelled slowly along the coast, it was easier to look past and stare out at the Mediterranean Sea glistening in the distance.
I was busy trying to stop my sad thoughts about the war damage, when a man in a suit, not uniform like every other man in the carriage, took the vacant seat next to me and introduced himself.
Stéphane. He looked to be about my age. Slightly older perhaps.
He surprised me by offering a cigarette, which I, of course, refused.
When he asked my name, I simply said Evelyn; like him, I didn’t offer my family name.
I knew to not to divulge too much to a complete stranger, however handsome and attractive he was.
‘You are American,’ he said, hearing my accent, and drawing on his cigarette. ‘En vacance for how long?’
I hesitated, not wanting to reveal the fact that I was on a work assignment as a journalist, so I simply shrugged. ‘Not sure. I will see how things go,’ I said. Determined to ask questions of my own, I asked, ‘You live on the Riviera?’
‘Oui.’ He glanced at me. ‘You have somewhere to stay?’
‘Oh yes, I have a proper itinerary, places to stay, places to visit, people to contact. I’m all organised,’ I added proudly. It was a lie about having people to contact, but I said it not wanting Stéphane to think I was totally alone in a foreign country. Which, of course, I was.
‘You Americans are always so efficient – for which we are now grateful, of course – but sometimes in life it is better to be a little,’ he hesitated, and I supplied the phrase.
‘Laissez-faire?’
‘You speak French?’
‘A few phrases I learnt for my visit.’ I glanced at him. ‘Your English is good.’
Stéphane shrugged. ‘It is useful to speak English, but I prefer to speak my own language whenever possible.’
I can’t remember now what we actually talked about for the rest of the journey along the coast. Time passed quickly with the light-hearted conversation that can happen between two people who have just met.
Stéphane was definitely flirting with me, even when I didn’t react to his words.
I do remember him saying, ‘I think I will have to show you the real Riviera while you are here,’ as he stubbed out yet another cigarette.
‘We will see each other again, but right now I have to leave you and find the luggage I left near an exit further up the train ready to get off at the next station. Au revoir, Evelyn.’
I watched him walk down the carriage wondering if I really would ever see him again. Probably not. The next station turned out to be Antibes, and I hurriedly started to gather my own luggage together, wishing as I did that Stéphane had hung around long enough to give me a hand.
So many people were leaving the train at Antibes that it was several moments before I actually stood on the platform and looked around, wondering whether Stéphane too had become caught up in the crowds, but there was no sign of him.
I managed to hire a battered old Citroen, one of only two taxis seemingly available, waiting outside the station.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the Pensione Provencal.
As I stood on the pavement waiting for the taxi driver to take my case out of the car, I glanced up at the building.
An old three- or four-storey terraced house, overlooking a plaza-like square, it looked sad and in need of some attention.
There was a grey saint-like figure carved into the stone wall above the window on the third floor, St. Christopher looking after the travellers finding shelter here, I presumed.
After I was shown into my room, I was too tired to do more than eat the last of the sandwiches I’d bought at Marseille station and go to bed. Tomorrow I will explore.
* * *
Evie closed the journal thoughtfully. Imagine travelling on one of the old ocean liners – how exciting that must have been for GeeGee on her first journey abroad.
But what a journey to undertake alone at such a young age and in a country so recently in the grip of a horrible war and struggling to re-find its place in the world.
Evie was tempted to flip through the journal pages to see if Stéphane did contact GeeGee again but refrained.
She’d read through the journal linearly, GeeGee’s experiences would feel more authentic that way.
One thing she was sure of – tomorrow she was going to see if she could find the Pensione Provencal where GeeGee had stayed. Hopefully, the building still existed, if not the actual guest house. Place Nationale was a large plaza-like square, so she’d start there.
What she did feel motivated to do now, though, was to finally start her own journal. Talking to Mel had served to jolt her out of her jet-lagged and apathetic mindset of the last week. There was really no excuse for not starting to write her personal journal of her time here in Antibes.
Evie glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. Time for her nightly cup of mulled wine at the Christmas market and tonight she’d take enough euros with her and remember to buy the notebook.
Music and laughter were coming from behind the closed door of the apartment on the first floor as she ran down the stairs.
Sometimes in the early morning, she heard doors slamming and voices as people left for work, but she had yet to meet anyone who lived in the building.
Maybe over the Christmas break, she’d bump into her neighbours in the other three apartments.
The market, as usual, was busy, noisy and there were French songs and Christmas carols being played over the loudspeakers placed throughout the market.
Evie looked around as she queued for her mulled wine.
Tonight there was a mobile catering unit on the edge of the square, and the smell of hot pizzas was drifting in the air.
Clearly popular, especially with the younger crowd, there was quite a queue.
Evie turned and looked in the opposite direction for the socca stand. If the queue there wasn’t too long, she’d treat herself to a slice again and, that looked like Brigitte standing there.
She’d definitely go across and say hello.
But, as she watched, Brigitte turned to the man at her side and smiled her thanks as he handed her a slice and they moved away slowly together.
Evie gave an inward sigh as she paid for her mulled wine.
If Brigitte had been alone, then she would have gone over and spoken to her, but she didn’t like to interrupt when she was with her husband.
They probably didn’t get to spend much time alone together if they both worked, Evie reasoned.
Sipping her wine, and forgetting about socca, she walked slowly towards the stationery stand.
The stallholder was busy with a customer, leaving Evie time to study the Moleskine notebooks and decide finally which colour she preferred.
Black was so traditional, but she wasn’t fond of dark colours.
Grey she always felt was a miserable non-colour.
Red, on the other hand, was bright, jolly and cheerful.
When the man came over to serve her and she handed him the notebook, he smiled. ‘Le rouge, it is a good choice.’
Evie walked slowly back to the apartment deep in thought.
Tomorrow morning, she would begin to plan a couple of lifestyle features for magazines back home and also a couple for HuffPost about living in Europe – and when she’d read GeeGee’s journal she’d do a comparison feature of the two different eras.
Finally, a plan was in place. And now she was going to phone home, talk to her mom and tell her how everything was going.