Three Scourges of Provence: Scourge #3

Scourge #3: Beer is cheaper than tea! "Kan jy dit glo?" (Can you believe it?) That's probably just fine if all you want to drink is beer or wine but not such good news for a teapot like me.

On principle I won't pay 3 Euros for a cup of tea when a beer costs 2.50. Once converted to Canadian dollars, $4.50 for a cup of tea is exorbitant. More than twice the price of what it would cost me at home. And that is without milk. Oh, you'd like milk with that - that's extra if you please. Needless to say, we were tea dry for most of our visit.

Case in point, one Aix morning, I head down to the corner store to grab a few items. "Look what I got us for breakfast for just more than 6 Euros," I boast to M on my return. I unpack a baguette, camembert cheese, yoghurt, apples and beer - 750ml of Kronenburg. It's always good to keep the surprise factor in a marriage I smile to myself as M exclaims with disbelief from under the shower.

And did we drink beer with our breakfast? Wouldn't you like to know!

So imagine how great was the indulgence when, on a cold damp afternoon in Bonnieux, we happen upon a restaurant that serves tea for the same price as a beer - 2.50 if you please. Yes, I certainly do please. Not only did it come with milk in a dainty jug, it was delightfully served in an elegant tea pot with a speculaas cookie on the side.

I enjoyed the occasion: steeping the tea in the tea pot, pouring milk from the jug into my cup and then adding the hot tea. M and I conversed with the hostess in broken English (hers) and juvenile French (ours). We understood each other well enough to share a laugh about the French prevalence for smoking excessively and drinking copious amounts of alcohol because tea is so expensive. She summarised French culture for us: "We drink! We smoke! Vive La France!"

And don't forget to watch for the dog poop as you step out the door.

Three Scourges of Provence: Scourge #2

Scourge #2: Smoking is a national past-time. The ubiquitous cigarette is a culture shock for these two smoke-free-clean-air Vancouverites.

It seems as though almost all of Provence participates in polluting the air: the very old, the middle-aged, young adults, teenagers a-plenty and even twelve year-olds. Just as seduction is an art in France (See De Nîmes Look, March 2010), so there is an art to smoking. As a hallmark of maturity, it must be done with great style.

Ironically, French women are renowned for dressing well. Their style is impeccably elegant. They learn it at a young age - even the French teenagers outclass their counterparts in North America. It's not just how they dress but also how they carry themselves. That same deportment and elegance extends to how they suck on their cigarettes.

But really, no matter how much refinement is executed in how you hold the cigarette in your fingers and between your lips, there comes a time when this epitome of sophistication shows in extra lines on the face and a dull complexion. Ultimately, it flies in the face of all things chic.

That, apparently, isn't much of a concern to the French. Returning to Nîmes by train from Marseilles, we were entertained by an elegantly dressed woman who made sure her make-up was proper and her unlit cigarette in hand before the train pulled into the station. And others still, continuing on the trip, take advantage of the brief train stops to jump off, light up and take a few puffs before the train heads off again.

Very elegant indeed!

Three Scourges of Provence: Scourge #1

Historically Provence has three scourges: parliament, the Mistral (a wickedly stubborn cold wind) and the Durance River. Only the Durance River has been tamed with dams and canals subduing its wild torrents. The Mistral continues to blow as it will and parliament, well, parliament remains parliament.

After a week of Provençal life, I would add three additional contemporary scourges.

Scourge #1: Dog poop that befouls unsuspecting pedestrians. Sure it's no fun to pick up a steaming hot smelly deposit but, if you're going to take your pet out for walks, clean up after it; it's a public courtesy. So we think and legislate in Canada, apparently not so in France. Consequently, you need eyes in your toes and peepholes in your shoes.

In Johannesburg, I had the honour of steeping in fresh dog poop in M's parents' garden. Unsuspectingly, I traipsed it across the clean stoep, into the house and onto the Persian carpet before M's Dad noticed and stopped me from progressing any further in my poop journey.

In the Kruger Park, I stepped in a big dollop of bird poop and traipsed it into the kitchen with me. Again M's Dad noticed asking, "Who stepped in the poop?" As I was the only one in the kitchen, he answered his own question, "You again?" So I just know you're wondering if I made it three in a row in Provence.

We stuck our heads into a church in Nîmes and a dear old lady was finishing up washing the ancient floor. She motioned for us to come in, but we declined, not wanting to walk on her still wet floor. "Nous regardons seulement," was my polite reply. "We are only looking" as though we were window shopping for churches. It was the best I could say.

Turning back, I noticed a smear of dog poop at the entrance and the offending mound just steps away. Oh! Oh! M and I hurriedly checked our shoes. Relief: it wasn't me. Double relief: M hadn't walked the dog poop onto the still wet clean floor of the church. His response on observing the mushy muck under his shoe: "Vreselijk!" Dutch for "Yuk! Yughh!" And it is. It may not be so bad if all the culprits were Yorkshire Terriers but Rottweilers and Bullmastiffs are in a league of their own.

Palm Sunday Morning

Within three blocks of our hotel in Aix, there are three churches. Provençal towns abound with churches and steeples. Some churches have been here for 1,000 years, others as little as 180 years. Some are cold and dark, others light and inviting, all have beautiful stained glass windows.

Our hotel is next door to a modest church. So modest that we didn't realise it was a church until, on Palm Sunday morning, we see an altar being set up for an outdoor Mass: six gold candelabras, red velvet, the crucifix covered for lent with a purple cloth, a tapestry rug on the cobbled floor, a basket of olive branches for the faithful.

We are still finishing up in our room when the sound of singing reaches us. I peer down and see the congregation, the priest and the four altar boys. The wind tugs at their garments; the faithful huddle against the crisp morning.

We head for our morning breakfast walk. Along the route, the head-scarved poor hope to sell an olive branch or two. We turn left off Rue d'Italie and hear the singing of other worshipers celebrating the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. Large palms reach above the throng as they follow the priest into the church from the square. We find a spot in the sun, watch the procession for a while, and then resume the walk to our fresh fruit and yoghurt bowl.

We've tasted the traditional croissant and cappuccino for breakfast. It is good, but not good enough to convert us to the French way of eating breakfast. When it comes to something sweet for breakfast I prefer fresh fruit and we are both keen on yoghurt: particularly plain Greek or Bulgarian style yoghurt. Thick and creamy is how yoghurt should be.

After our first course for breakfast, we stop by the boulangerie for a fresh-out-of-the-oven baguette. Returning to our hotel, we pass the little church at the top of our street. It is filled to capacity with standing room only: backs are pressed against the glass doors. At our hotel, a white towel serves as our tablecloth and hosts the baguette and goat cheese. We break off chunks of the bread and smear on the soft cheese: a delightful and superb second course to our breakfast.

Mass finished, the neighbours next door spill out of the church and down the steps in convivial form. Enjoying the sun and conversation, they buy traditional chocolate Easter eggs. M and I are out of the door again, off to explore Aix and work up an appetite for our third course: crunchy brown sugar wrapped in a hot crêpe.

Je Me Souviens

I will always remember my 43rd birthday celebrated in Nîmes, France.

I'll remember the early morning rain and the locals scurrying across the Place du Marché with their umbrellas. I'll remember turning away from the tall French doors of our hotel room to confirm to M that we wouldn't be doing a daytrip to the Pont du Gard after all. I'll remember the delightful birthday card I opened from my parents and brother. And M singing 'Happy Birthday' to me as many as three times both in English and Afrikaans.

I'll remember the croissant and cappuccino we had for breakfast at the little hole in the wall bistro up the street from our hotel. I'll remember wandering through the Nîmes indoor market taking in the range of olives, potatoes and skinned rabbits with their glassy eyes glaring accusingly at passersby. I'll remember the fresh fish, large smoked hams, the stalls of fruit and vegetables, the various tapenades and M's delight when he recognised a word or two or three in French.

I'll remember coming out of the market to increasingly blue skies and bright sunshine. We could've gone to the Pont du Gard after all we sigh. Never mind, we'll still enjoy our day. We'll walk in the sunshine along the canal to the Gardens and take in the Magna Tower. We'll climb the tower and view Nîmes from the top. We'll spy the arena and the locality of our hotel. We'll try to spot the Maison Carrée and the Castellum. We'll count the steeples of all the churches.

We'll be pleased for a spot of shade in the garden to enjoy our lunch of baguette, camembert cheese, yoghurt and a bar of chocolate that has come all the way from South Africa with us. We'll enjoy the warm weather, the first blossoms of the season, the cooing of the pigeons and the church bells striking twelve.

We'll stop in at the library to make use of their facilities and check our email. I'll remember the sad news from my brothers of the death of my aunt the night before. I'll remember my regret that I am no longer in South Africa to comfort my mother and support her in her grief.

We'll walk on to find one of two arched entry ways into the city linking Spain with Italy on the Via Dolmitia, a road predating the birth of Christ. So much in this city is at least 1,000 years old; some more than 2,000 years old. It puts in perspective how short my life span is.

We'll stop in at a church for some quiet and to pray for the loss of my aunt and what that means for my mother, her siblings and, especially, my cousins. We'll take time to ponder again the brevity of life, the losses that make up life and what it means to live life.

We'll while away some of the afternoon over a 'pression' at a French-Irish pub. And then regret that we hadn't first stumbled over the little café in the Place aux Herbes where we could've enjoyed our 'pression' in the sunshine. Nevermind, we'll treat ourselves to some birthday cake instead. I have a custard slice and M enjoys an apple slice. We soak up some sun and people watch the locals.

We'll wrap up the late afternoon in the hotel room with some writing and Sudoku as we wait for the appropriate French time for dinner. We don't want to repeat a previous mistake of arriving too early. M keeps an eye on our restaurant of choice in the square below and keeps up a running commentary of the activities while I write.

I'll remember this birthday. I'll remember the happy moments and the sad ones. I'll remember the quiet church, the busy market, the pouring rain and the bright sunshine.

I will want to remember them all as they make up the life I live.

De Nîmes Look

It is cold, way colder than we expected in the South of France. The trees are stark and naked. The skies are grey: Vancouver-grey. I've slipped a zippered top on underneath my jacket and M keeps my left hand warm in his. Nîmes has not yet shrugged off winter.

We're on our way up the Boulevard Alphonse Daudet toward the Quai de la Fontaine. We hope to beat the rain and slip in one more tourist site, the Castellum, before calling it a day. The Castellum is what remains of the Roman distribution tank that received the water ducted from 50kms away via the magnificent Pont du Gard more than 2,000 years ago.

I sense M looking at me. I glance up. He is giving me a wishy-washy puppy-dog look. I burst out laughing and ask, "Did you see another one?" He nods and continues to give me the puppy-dog-I'm-so-in-love-with-you look. My laughter turns into a hacking cough: the remains of a cold that won't go away.

France is the country of lovers. At first we thought it was just Paris. We wondered then, if indeed, something was put in the water because of the many times we saw Parisians look longingly into each other's eyes and be openly and unabashedly affectionate in public. Less than two days in Nîmes and we've noticed that this small city in the South of France can give its larger counterpart up north a run for its open display of affection.

The Parisians, though, would win in the art of seduction. The adult lovers bring a contagious charm to their displays of affection. So much so, M and I felt inspired to follow suit when we ambled along the Seine.

In Nîmes, the participants are primarily teenagers. What they lack in maturity they make up for in enthusiasm. They lock legs, arms, eyes and lips with oodles of zest. Learning the art of French seduction must start somewhere and beginner lessons look like this. The greatest turn-off is the soppy look of love shared between the young lovers. The same look M is still giving me as we stop to cross the road at the Quai de la Fontaine.

I get my hacking cough and laughter under control and sputter, "Please stop it. It's so mushy!" I shudder. This time it has nothing to do with the cold.

Beach Reading

Beach holidays look like this: slow starts to the morning, an early morning run or walk (if you choose), easy and languid breakfasts, a collection of books to read and saunters to the beach. A week's jaunt to the Natal Coast with my brother and parents is a good opportunity to slow down and indulge in holiday reading.

For the first time in the fifteen years I have known him, M reads a book from cover to cover on holiday and then follows it up with a second one. For me reading is a priority; I squeeze in every opportunity I can to take in a few words. For M it is a nice-to-do after he has completed all his obligations and tasks. This week he has given himself space to read.

I finish four books. I encourage M to read 'Under a Thousand Suns' by Khaled Hosseini after I finish it. Like Hosseini's other book, 'The Kite Runner', I find it a hard book to read. It reveals the harsh reality of life for others, particularly women. The book sobers my judgments and thoughts. I not only appreciate being a 21st century western woman but acknowledge that I have had choices not available to other women.

Every day, I read two chapters of 'Riding the Dragon' by Robert J. Wicks: highly recommended to me by my mother. I read one chapter in the morning and one in the evening. Each chapter gives me something to ponder.

Reading the introduction, I didn't think I was going to enjoy the book. But from the first chapter I am hooked. I appreciate books that equip us to work with the difficulties in our lives. In order to have genuine sunrays shining in and through our lives, we first have to do the hard work of finding peace with our dragons. Some we will slay, some we will subdue and others we will learn to ride.

After thought-provoking books, 'The Assassin' by Evelyn Anthony is lighthearted beach reading. Written in 1970 it's interesting to note how much smoking and throwing back whiskeys litter the novel.

I round off my reading for the week with a fabulous classic, 'Jamaica Inn' by Daphne du Maurier. I not only enjoy the storyline but greatly appreciate the quality of du Maurier's writing. Her work inspires me and stirs up a smidgen of envy.

I read on the beach. I read in the quiet of the morning while M still sleeps. I read in the late afternoon on the stoep sipping a beer shandy. I read at night in the quiet company of my family who read too.

This is sheer holiday luxury.

Sweni Road

The jewel in the crown of a trip to the Kruger Park is seeing all of the Big Five: lion, buffalo, rhinoceros, leopard and elephant. M and I have had that privilege only once in our many visits together, particularly because one of the hardest finds in the Big Five is the leopard.

Our third day in the Park and our search was going slowly. In the first 20kms of the morning we had seen just one giraffe. It was slim pickings for the rest of our slow search from Talamati to Satara. Our best viewing was from our shaded vantage point on the verandah at Satara. Sipping cold cider drinks, we watched blou wildebeest, an elephant and a small family of warthogs going about their lives on the other side of the perimeter fence.

On the return trip to our camp, M's mother suggested we take Sweni Road enroute to Talamati. It seemed as good a suggestion as any other.

First I spotted a rhino. Stop! - a command everyone wants to hear. It means our efforts aren't for naught. We stopped for one and got two. Just meters apart, two lumbering hides were munching on grass. Surprisingly, just like elephants, these mammoth animals are herbivores.

Our second encounter was with a herd of elephant straddling both sides of the sand road. They had found a mud patch and were taking turns spraying themselves with the cool mud. The smaller ones rolled in the mud. Protecting their young, the matriarchs kept a close eye on our car. We knew to keep our distance and to be prepared to reverse at great speed if a matriarch stared us down and started to flap her ears.

Thankfully, there was no such excitement. One of the matriarchs did cross the road to round up two youngsters still wallowing at the mud bath. As she traversed the road there and back she gave us a beady eye. We weren't about to disregard her warning and she was satisfied with that.

Our next spot was a lone buffalo tucked back in the bush but still easily identifiable. A large herd of buffalo is a sight to behold, especially when they spill across the road and you are not going anywhere except back from where you came. They don't move out of your way - you're in their territory, remember? This lone buffalo wasn't about to hold us up and on we went.

M's dad turned in at a dam for a closer look. The road for the turnoff looked treacherous and there was concern that we could get stuck. M's dad persevered and we crossed the small donga. We scoured the bush and the dam: no buck, no hippos, no crocs. It was all quiet. Looking keenly, M spotted a light coloured head above the grass. Lion - surely that was a lion. If so, we would have spotted the big Five as we had seen a leopard in a tree the day before.

Up went the binoculars - it was a beautiful leopard. He lay there for a short while, head above the grass, but our voices carried across the water and he chose to move on. We tracked him as he put distance between us - a stunningly beautiful specimen!

Four of the big Five spotted one after the other on the Sweni Road - such unlikely odds. Would we possibly spot lion next? No, it wasn't to be. Instead, we sighted two elephants drinking from the concrete reservoir just outside our bush camp. The sides of the reservoir stood taller than the elephants but over went their trunks, sloshing and filling with water.

That's the joy of the Kruger Park - it is a wildlife reserve, not a zoo. Each sighting is a gift and we're grateful for each gift, no matter how big or small.

Tea and Rusks

My writing done, I join M and his mother on the other side of the large stoep for a second cup of tea and a rusk. We're still in our pyjamas. M's Dad sleeps.

We look out over the long grass, through the perimeter fence, and out at the bush. I enjoy my tea with a South African rusk. I have never taken to dunking the large dry biscuit in my tea as most South Africans do. Not because I don't like my rusk a little soggy from the hot drink - I just don't enjoy drinking my tea with the rusk bits that end up floating in the tea cup.

I crunch the rusk and sip my tea. We discuss the wild life we saw the previous day driving to Talamati, our bush camp: elephant, giraffe, buffalo, water buck, zebra, roan antelope, blue wildebeest and crocodile. We have hopeful expectations for our first full day in the Park. More of the same, plus lion, rhino and leopard to compliment the elephant and buffalo we have already spotted of the Big Five.

The morning sun warms us. My skin becomes increasingly clammy. We shower morning and evening freshening ourselves from the cloying humidity of the Lowveld. My rusk is finished; my tea cup empty. It's almost 8 o'clock and time to get the morning underway.

I head indoors. M calls quietly, "Wait. Come look." Stealthily, I settle back in my chair. On the fence is a Woodlands Kingfisher. The Kruger Park has an abundance of wild animals; its draw card. But it is also a spectacular showcase of South Africa's prolific and varied bird life.

We have already feasted our eyes on the magnificent Lilac Breasted Roller, the European Roller, the Yellow Billed Hornbill and the striking Carmine Bee Eater. Now it is the turn of the kingfisher. Of all God's birds, I have a special regard for the kingfisher.

My fondness for this fisher of kings stems from our newlywed days living in Johannesburg. A Brown Hooded Kingfisher moved into our neighbourhood. I could spy it flitting in our back yard when I was in the kitchen. It was company for us when M and I gardened in the front or enjoyed a cup of tea on the patio. This busy bird probably never even noticed us but, for me, it was part of the rhythm of our lives and part of our family: two adults, a dog, a cat and an uncaged bird.

When we sold our townhouse in preparation for our move to Canada, M's brother and family adopted Annie, our Staffie, my parents adopted Cheshire, our black and white cat, and our unnamed kingfisher stayed behind in the neighbourhood. I was sorry to say goodbye to all of them.

Tea, rusks and a kingfisher: no matter how many animals we may see today, I have already had a taste of Africa this morning.

Exotic Liras

At the beginning of summer I keep my toenails sandal ready with an annual professional pedicure. My finger nails get the same treatment but sans the coat of paint. With washing dishes and household activities, I see no reason to dolly up my finger nails with a ravishing red. Practicality reigns.

Before we left for our holiday to South Africa, I hoped to fit in a pedicure. It wasn't to be. Time ran out and an indulgent pedicure became a non-essential. Instead, I slipped my red nail polish in with my toiletries. I'd slap on a coat of paint when I got to the other side. Sure enough, our first day in South Africa I sat on the back stoep at my parents' place and painted my toenails classic red. That would have to do.

M's parents' had planned a girls' night in and a boys' night out as part of the 80th birthday celebrations. What a delight when I learned that the girls were being treated to a spa night at home. A personal pedicure and manicure for five of us. I enjoyed sipping wine, eating nibblies and chatting while I waited my turn for a luxurious indulgence.

At first I hesitated and requested a clear paint for my finger nails. Next I thought: I'm on holiday, if I don't paint my fingernails now when will I ever paint them?

M sometimes still reminds me that I didn't bother to paint my finger nails for our wedding day. He's right I didn't. I went totally au natural. Once in our early dating days he commented that I didn't need to wear nail polish to impress him. He didn't care much for a woman to spend too much time beautifying herself. Come our wedding day, I took him at his word. Apparently, his comment didn't apply to a day as auspicious as our wedding. I missed that memo.

Anyway, I digress.

I looked again at my nails and decided to take the plunge. Painting my finger nails is a sure sign of being on holiday. And so 'Exotic Liras', a dark pink paint, found its way on to my finger nails too.

M's been a total honey this holiday, happily washing the dishes wherever we happen to be so that I can get extended life out of my painted nails. They looked great at the formal birthday luncheon offset against white table linen and silverware. They look pretty and feminine tucked into green grass. They are a little out of place in the bush (but I'm happy to be off washing dishes duty; drying dishes does them no harm). And soon they will be offset against white beach sand.

Exotic Liras on my finger nails: the epitome of a summer holiday.

Bush Camp Night Sky

"Look at the night sky! Look at the night sky!" The wonder and awe filled my voice and overflowed into the bush camp night. We overuse the word 'awesome'. It is when you see the beauty of the night sky that you understand the magnitude and weight of the word.

I craned my neck to take in more of the galaxy sparkling in the inky sky. M stood quietly and looked up too. We were headed to the camp's lookout hoping to spot wild life drinking at the illuminated waterhole. I didn't expect to be stopped in my tracks by the spectacular array of stars.

In city and suburban life, with our light pollution, we miss out on one of God's amazing pieces of art - the night sky. City lights are a poor substitute when you behold a galaxy, the Southern Cross and the magnitude of stars scattered with precision beyond our world.

M held my hand and guided us in the dark while I kept my head craned toward the stars. It was a walk of trust that he wouldn't walk me into a hole while I beheld God's creativity.

There were no animals at the waterhole. The air was filled with the chirp of crickets and the ribbets of frogs: no bark of a baboon, roar of a lion or grunt of a hippopotamus. I didn't mind. I kept sneaking a look at the stars.

Barefoot in Africa

I slipped off my high-heels. The grass was hard and prickly under my feet. I was barefoot in Africa again. In my early and mid-twenties I was a country girl. I lived on a small-holding (hobby farm) south of Johannesburg and went barefoot at home all the time. Yes, my feet got dusty and dirty; my soles hardened and my heels cracked a trifle; yet there was a freedom and joy in that.

Walking barefoot wasn't my first taste that I was back in Africa. The big open sky, the hot sun and the wide white grins in black faces made me feel right at home. A few days after our arrival we were welcomed by a true blue Highveld thunderstorm. I forgot that it could storm pelting rain, thunder and lightning unabated for more than six hours. The rain started with big fat plops at 8:30pm and lashed its unrelenting fury on the corrugated tin roof of my parents' cottage.

I love that sound. It takes me straight back to my country life and the tin roof of my house. The sound of the rain on the roof would be so loud that I would turn the volume of the TV up and sit just a metre or two away so that I could hear. When the electricity went out, I'd throw open the doors and storm watch (see African Thunderstorm, July 2009).

But even before the storm, a trip to the butchery for a mutton roast made it clear I was no longer in Canada. Apart from the standard cuts for dinner, there was a large selection of liver, ox tail and ox tongue, pigs' trotters perfect for making yummy brawn, white intestines to make tripe, kidneys to add to my steak pie, chicken feet and the entrails of a sheep. And, of course, strips of that great South African delicacy, biltong (dried beef), hanging from the rafters.

Ox tongue and apricots cooked long and slow in a potjie pot (black cooking pot) over hot coals under the grape vines is a sweet memory I have of my country life years. With five dogs, three cats and a glass of white wine to add to the company, there is a touch of nostalgia for the slow pace of those days.

After the busyness of our mid-life years in the city, I hope to one day have a small place again in the country, go barefoot, grow some vegetables, have a few fruit trees, two dogs and a cat, and enjoy slow cooking and slow living.

Sunday Drive

I wind the window down all the way. Now that Sunday lunch in the country to celebrate Pappie's 80th birthday is over I can let the wind have its way with my hair. I'll struggle with the knots later. The wind whips my hair across my eyes and, again, away from my face when I turn my face to the wind.

Sunday Drives are a luxury. Growing up I didn't realise the wealth we had when we took a Sunday Drive. After our Sunday roast dinner, the Sunday papers read and the dishes done, the afternoon would stretch languidly out in front of us. I don't remember who would suggest the Sunday Drive, Dad or Mom? I do remember I was always keen to go along. The three of us would set out in my father's car. My brothers didn't usually come along. A Sunday Drive wasn't how they enjoyed wiling away their Sunday afternoon.

We drove nowhere in particular. Dad would set a course that would take us out on to the country roads. Mom knitted. I sat at the back and looked out the window. Even now, when we go on road trips, I don't read or occupy myself to pass the time. I just sit and look out the window. I take in the scenery. I let thoughts surface at random. I dream. I rest.

Sundays we would drive there and back to see how far it is: no agenda, no accomplishment and no task. The luxury of time: wealth measured in moments.

It's Sunday afternoon in Africa again.

Old but not Cold

A sense of humour rounds out life. It keeps marriages supple, softens our own edge of seriousness and lets us see the lighter side of life. One of the nicest comments I've heard M make about his wife is when he reassured a colleague, who thought he might have offended me, "No, Brenda's got a great sense of humour. She actually found it very funny." I thoroughly appreciate and enjoy good humour from others. An unexpected chuckle is a satisfying taste of life.

I enjoyed such a moment on the stoep of M's parents' place in Johannesburg.

His father is a laid-back personality, accepting of life and its curve balls, and able to enjoy where he is at. This week he turned 80 and was heralded with many, "Machtig, jy's tachtig!" (Amazing you're eighty!) accolades by his family. Basking in the sun rays of attention, he responded to M's enquiry about how he felt being 80 with a settled, "Oud maar niet koud" (Old but not cold). I loved those words the moment they rolled off his tongue that sunny African afternoon on the stoep. I chuckled and, straight away, scooped them up and pocketed them for myself: an unexpected gift from my father-in-law.

That's how I want to live life. Settled with where I am at, not pining for missed opportunities or overwhelmed about concern for the future - and most especially, seeing the humour in life.

Thank you, Pappie, for your gift to me on your eightieth birthday!

Busy Lizzies

In the distance the traffic drones. I listen instead to the chirp and twitter of the birds in the trees. It's late summer in Africa. The air is warm on my skin, the mid-afternoon sun is hot if you are out in it too long and the Busy Lizzies are in full bloom. I write at the table on the verandah. M reads about the 2010 soccer world cup. His father does a crossword puzzle and his mother does Sudoku. This is what a lazy summer afternoon should look like.

This is a far cry from Vancouver one week ago. Far from lazy, we were busy: caught up in Winter Olympic fever, rushing to complete work and tie up loose ends. I got no writing done and felt the frustration of it. We watched the Olympics as much as we could and it ate into our precious and fast-dwindling time. "But it only happens like this once in a life-time," we consoled ourselves each time we set busyness and commitments aside to cheer on the Canadians. With each medal won, we celebrated with a chocolate medallion of our own, a Purdy's Sweet Georgia Brown.

The cheerful and restful pinks of the Busy Lizzies belie their name. My busyness doesn't look as lovely and peaceful as these Impatiens soaking in the African sun. Au contraire! At rest I have more in common with the Busy Lizzies. I have time to reflect that I want to be less busy, more creative, and more at rest within myself. I want to cook more and write more. I want to welcome friends into our home more and read and exercise more. But for more of that I need to do less of something else.

I let that thought slide. I don't want to think anymore of my busyness. Right now I want to be as busy as the Lizzies in the garden.

Home-Grown

The spinach collects on the ground. Snip. Snip. Mom cuts away fresh crisp spinach leaves for the roast lamb dinner. I select the ripest grape tomatoes, relieving the tomato plant of some its bounty, and into the wicker basket they go. Just a few days ago we were in Vancouver caught up with the 2010 Olympics and Oh Canada! Today I companionably select produce from my mother's small vegetable and herb garden in Africa.

Jet lag and the tiredness that enveloped me right up to our departure on the evening Canada lost Gold in Women's curling to Sweden seeps out with each motion of companionable silence in the vegetable garden. Rest starts to find room in my body and my spirit.

Mom and I add the spinach to the basket. Mom turns to select radishes. I don't recognise her bald head. A smattering of baby fine hair struggles to establish itself like tender grass growing on a wind-ravaged rocky outcrop. When Mom looks at me and I see her face, her freckles, her warm eyes and the lines that have made themselves at home on her face, I know her well. Yet when she turns from me, she is a foreigner to me. I do not know the contours of this bald head.

In the kitchen, I wash the spinach and we shred it into a pot - the luxury of time. At home I buy ready-washed spinach. Time is of the essence after a day of work. Less time spent preparing food is more time spent with busyness elsewhere. City stress seeps out and down the sink's drain with the soil from the spinach.

I chop the sugared mint leaves on the board. I remember doing this when I was a young girl I say to Mom. I remember picking the mint in the back garden and making the mint sauce for our Sunday lunch lamb roasts.

I always made the mint sauce when we had Sunday lunch at my mother-in-law's, my mother remembers. We each have our own memory of home-grown mint, sugared, finely chopped and added to white vinegar.

In the simplicity of preparing the herbs and vegetables I commend my mother for her organic array. Yes, it's home-grown in my garden, she replies. Organic or home-grown - quite the same I muse - it just depends on how close you are to mother earth.