Voyage à deux

I've got a crush on the south of France.

The first French friends I made in Paris are all originally from various places in the south. These southern friends are "expats" in a way, fiercely denying any ties to those arse-hole Parisiens. They wear bright colours and flaunt shirts with embroidered flowers in defiance of the muted tones of parisiens. They open themselves right up as if to distinguish themselves from the parisiens concealed behind closed shutters.

Down south, Summer is just the way I like it. The air crackles and pops like it does in Australia and you are impregnated with the heavy stench of the juices of insects and worn out flowers. If you reach out and touch the coast you can throw yourself into a swimmable sea.

I started thinking about organising another trip down south again when I watched Two for the Road this weekend. Usually I watch Audrey Hepburn films just to admire her wardrobe but this film was bigger than her wardrobe.

The film is the story of an English couple whose relationship is about to shrivel up and fall off. They take a trip by car from Calais (I guess), to the Côte d'Azur. On this voyage we weave in and out of several other road trips they have taken in France, including the time they first met when they collided in the French countryside. We see how their relationship has evolved in pace with the way that they have social climbed. We feel sad when we see how happy they were before, in contrast to the bat cave of lies and disappointment that their relationship has now become. But in the end we're not that sad because we realise that their love has reached a new level and can stretch even further to accommodate their changed selves.

I just had a rummage through my archives and found a little diary entry of my own voyage à deux when French and I took a road trip down south for my 30th birthday. It highlights the way that an ill-matched middle class couple, who have never been out in the fields working with a hammer and sickle, can waste time on trivialities:

"We drove gung ho from Paris to Lyon, only stopping for sandwiches in an ant-filled ditch by the road. Then, after a day of nibbling on each other's nerves, we had a fight because, for no sound reason, I wanted to go on a tour of Lyon's Opera House. Because of this desire to see the Opera House, French wanted to break up with me.

But he changed his mind three minutes later. I didn't say "yes, we're back together" or "no, we're not" for the sake of peace over my Salade Lyonnaise. But although things were half patched up between us, we didn't say bonne nuit to each other that night and this led to hostilities over the white bread and nutella spread the next morning. This already sombre mood was aggravated by a dearth of croissants.

But then in medieval Avignon, after I made several snide remarks, we were reunited in a thunderstorm in a little park on the hill, watched by two sniggering goats.

Then everything fell apart again in Aix-en-Provence when I refused to pick a restaurant for dinner. What followed was a whole night of breaking up and crying (me) and me attacking everyone with a pair of nail scissors (me being the main victim).

The next morning when I insisted on being dropped off at the nearest train station, French kidnapped me and took me to Nice. And there everything changed because there we have the sea and you can swim and it's pumping-and-mad-and-hot-and you can eat big juicy capers and Socca.

That day was my birthday and it was all about me and champagne and beautiful parks on promontories. So things were in top shape.

And then there was yesterday: the seven hours slog in the car back to Paris with sporadic arguments and boredom and reminiscing about what a nice holiday it was, with everyone forgetting about those nail scissors and our lack of complicity.

Lethe-wards we sunk."