Even if you haven't read all of Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu and haven't had the adulterated pleasure of reaching the final volume - where everything hots up, where sexuality bubbles and flows, and everyone comes out of the closet, I'm sure you know all about the madeleine scene at the beginning of the book.
In this scene Proust (or M as he likes to call himself) dips a madeleine into his tea before eating it, and this action, and the ensuing flavour of the soggy madeleine, transports him back to his childhood. Involuntary memories are triggered:
The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray … when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Leonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane …. and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and garden alike, from my cup of tea.
I had a similar experience with my morning coffee the other day. With sleep-infested eyes and a hangover from allergy-combating tablets, I wasn't paying my normal meticulous attention to detail when I fired up my Delonghi coffee maker. I could see the resulting coffee was not up to my usual standard but I was too bleary-bodied to care.
The coffee was hot milk. Weak as Larry on a weak day. I was suddenly transported back to when I first moved to Paris and I didn't have my Delonghi, when I had no choice but to start my days with the café crème they dish up in Paris cafes, like drinking milk that's been out in the sun too long and stirred by the cat's tongue.
This was a time when I was lack lustre. When I was out of step. When my colour scheme was all wrong. With my mind's eye I see a grey-faced girl who ate without appetite, stuffed herself with madeleines to try and fill an undetected void. I'd spend hours in the department stores buying badly fitting garments with bows in the wrong places that now lie in a heap somewhere in my wardobe, nothing but nests for locusts.
The funny thing is that at the time I didn't recognise I was unhappy, at least not consciously. It's only when I sip weak coffee and remember this period that I realise that I was dejected. At the time I think I was fooled because everything was ostensibly in place to be happy. I was living in Europe with a completely new climate, landscapes and crannies to explore. I had enough money so that I only needed to work sporadically and I was free to spend the rest of the time shopping, sitting in cafes and searching for friends online.
My hair started to fall out and I was convinced it was a sinister force, a curse had been placed upon the house of Pinochiette. The doctor ruled this out and diagnosed stress. "I'm not stressed!" I argued with him. How can I be stressed when I have absolutely nothing to worry about? I said, kindly pointing him in the direction of various fatal diseases he might want to check my symptoms against. But he was unyielding and a couple of doctors later I had to ask myself: am I stressed? am I unhappy?
Parc Monceau reminds me of my recovery period. Admittedly it was during the spring time that I used to go there, when the sun was bursting out of its socket and the air was filled with the crackle of birds stomping on branches, so this may be one of the reasons why I remember this as a period of re-growth. I stopped shopping and instead I sat in the park and read. I bought a coffee machine and I started the days with a strong coffee.
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