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.