Almost French by Sarah Turnbull Read Free Book Online

reflected in the clamour of comings and goings, the hurried movement all round us, the huge, hangar-like space which makes us feel tiny and uncertain.
    As the train glides smoothly forward, I turn over my shoulder for one last wave. Frédéric stands on the platform, arm stretched high in the air. He stays like that for about thirty seconds, perfectly still, until the track curls away from the station and he disappears from view.

    Several weeks later I’m a world away from Paris, stretched across four seats on an overnight ferry which is cruising towards the far-eastern edge of Europe. The boat docks at the Greek island of Samos, which nudges—rather tensely—the Turkish coast. After a couple of hot days in Vathi, the main port, I take a bus to the pine-and oak-forested hills skirting Mount Ampelos. The sun beats on my back as I wind through orchards and vineyards, trying to follow a walking trail marked by contradictory arrows and the occasional mad map. Eventually, I arrive at the gleaming white, mountain village of Vourliotes, tired and sweaty.
    The scene is surreal. Thousands of kilometres from home, plunged in the middle of nowhere, I suddenly step into what looks like a giant Australian souvenir shop dropped into a Greek setting. Children run playfully past, with koalas, kangaroos and ‘I love Australia’ splashed on their T-shirts. The local taverna is waving an Australian flag. In the shade, elderly men play a card game at the sort of pace which suggests they might take the rest of their lives to finish it. One of them has ‘I’ve surfed Bondi Beach’ emblazoned across his chest.
    A charming, chatty villager solves the mystery. After the Second World War, much of the community emigrated to Australia. Over the years, some family members have returned. Most of them no longer know where to call home, the inhabitant explains. His own Australian-born children are studying to be lawyers and teachers. To them, Sydney is home. But for him, the choice is not so simple. Now in his fifties, with every passing year the pull of his village among the vines grows stronger. His life is a constant dilemma: in Australia he feels Greek; in Greece he feels Australian.
    ‘It’s a bitter–sweet thing, knowing two cultures,’ he sighs.‘Once you leave your birthplace nothing is ever the same.’ The man stares at the glittering turquoise cradling the coast, thinking of his kids at the opposite end of the earth.
    ‘It’s a curse to love two countries.’ He smiles wryly at his own melodramatic words. But there is sadness in his eyes.
    Unable to relate to his experience, I can only sympathise in a limited sort of way. Besides, I’m in no mood for dark thoughts. A few days from now, I’ll be meeting Sue in Istanbul. In the bursting sunlight, sucking in the island’s jasmine-scented air, the future seems full of promise.
    I had no idea then how radically my life was about to change and how well I would come to understand what the Greek had said.

I return to Paris, of course. The way I see it, there is really no alternative.
    After four months of travelling, I know only one thing with absolute certainty: if I don’t go to France—and I mean to try to make a life there with Frédéric—I might regret it forever. I’ll always be wondering about the love of my life that could have been, the entirely different future that might have been if only I’d taken the risk. Sure, there’s no guarantee that it’ll work out, but then nothing ventured, nothing gained . All I know is a chance encounter has thrown open an unexpected door. Instinct tells me to step through it.
    On a winter’s day in January under a watery sun, my plane touches down at Charles de Gaulle airport. Once again I’m struck by the ambivalent appearance of the place. I wonder if this rundown spaceship is a sort of metaphor for France; if this country is in some respects ultramodern and sophisticated yet in other ways behind the times. But a couple of things