I leave in the afternoon for Venice. I'm on my way again, I broke up my French trip to meet up with the daughter after the affair of the stolen wallet and the leavetaking of her partner. I was being motherly but she had herself sorted. I wait at the bus station in the freezing cold and decide to have a hot chocolate at the bar. I am the only woman there, the mountain men are all having their aperitivo drinks. The waitress with rainbow hair makes me a thick, dark hot chocolate that is like a hot mousse. I am warmed and ready for the bus trip to Venice.
I get the overnight train again to Paris, booking a carriage for two and ending up for some reason in one on my own again. The usual half bottle of chilled Prosecco, juice, magazines are laid out for me. Why is the Italian train to #Paris so much more glamorous than the Paris to Venice? In the morning there is a choice of four croissants and a fantastic macchiato made by a handsome Italian barista. Ah Italy....
I've booked a hotel on the Ile St Louis. I choose it because it's reasonable and I expect that it's close to tourist places. Wrong again but at least it's in a better area than the last one. It's warm and welcoming with a fireplace crackling. It's freezing, windy and rainy. When I walk out to explore, I am cooled to the core. After an hour of my umbrella being blown inside out; I find a cafe with the famous Moules and frites. Older couples surround me, I can imagine that they come here on a certain day of the week. It seems I am the solo tourist. I have been invited to the opening of the art exhibition of the man I met on the train last time, and I'm also supposed to dine with my late husband's best friend but I cancel both. As Greta Garbo famously said: I just want to be alone. I don't feel like talking to anyone. I'm still in the zone of not being able to see the point of doing anything, of being creative, of starting a business, of anything that will take me away from this depression. I thought it would depart upon my departure but it is stubbornly following wherever I go. I find the famous ice cream shop - #Berthillon which opened in 1961. It's not really the day for icecream but it's the place to go so I order Praline citron and coriander and it's really good. It comes garnished with an enormous tuile studded with slivered almonds. The same couple from the restaurant have arrived. They're holding hands. I wonder why I'm not missing my partner, why I'm so set on being alone on this trip. Since my husband died, I have dreamt of travelling with someone again, holding hands, dining, discovering together but the need to be solo has surpassed my other emotional needs. I think my back operation toppled my delicate emotional equilibrium and threw me over the edge. There is a selfishness there perhaps, I don't have to consider anyone else but myself and after years of being a carer to both my mother and husband with long drawn out illnesses, I need this space to find myself again. I walk out into the street but my walk is curtailed by the wind driven rain. An early night and a new town tomorrow.
I had planned a trip to the countryside to stay in a beautiful country house but again my plans were thwarted by the winter hibernation of buses that would have got me there. I had to change at the last minute and randomly picked two towns on the map. #Angouleme was only a couple of hours away. I should have realised when it's claim to fame was a Festival for Comics that I may be out of my depth. The hotel had a definite art comic theme. All purple and red, with a giant white plastic Eiffel tower light, ornate staircase and gothic style velvet lounges. My room was various tones of red, brothel-like with an orange tiled bathroom. There were comic street art on the old buildings, evidently 40% of French comics are produced here. I walk until six but the magical eating hour is still an hour away so I find a bar that looks like it might be suitable for a single woman. Cafe Chaud is quirky and I have a horse's head as company tonight. A lovely curvy staircase showcases the ancient beams and purple lighting flashes bring it up to date. Again I am the solo female; I take out my phone and look busy. I have booked into a restaurant whose ancient walls are covered with cartoons of chickens, bales of hay interspersed in between the tables. It's raining again and tonight, for the first time, I feel a bit lonely, especially when the waiter asks: Will anyone be joining you? I order duck and a glass of wine. They bring me a bowl of very thin crispy bread studded with fennel seeds and then the duck arrives in a casserole dish with three different varieties of carrot - orange, cream and purple; the champignon sauce is creamy and mustardy, and then another basket of rustic bread arrives. How the French love their bread.
I text the daughter who has gone off on her own for the first time. She's arrived in Perugia, city of the famous Perugina chocolates. She's lonely too, we commiserate with each other. I tell her of being solo in the bar with the horse as my erstwhile companion; she complains about the men trying to pick her up. Oh youth! Oh, middle age! She and the Italian Romeos, me and the stuffed horse's head.
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