If I’m crying it’s a good thing.

You know that Van Gogh painting of his room, with his single bed and his chair? In my mind’s eye, that room is colourful and inviting despite its simplicity. It seems to move; it’s alive. Well, I’m staying for two weeks in a stark, musty sepia version of that room, sitting, to do my devoirs - my homework - in the evenings on Van Gogh’s chair. At least a replica of it with its rattan seat and carved back. My seat is covered by a thin floral chair pad.

It’s not comfy but my chambre is a bit more spacious than Harry Potter’s cupboard. My desk is tucked under the stairs. Gives me the sense that I’m sixteen again, and dad’s ordered me into my room to get on with my sodding homework, albeit in our 1960s brick veneer in Melbourne.

I was that girl last night: sober, of course. (Well, last night was a school night.) I was sitting upright on an imperative chair, doing my French, transforming loads of sentences and paragraphs from the present tense to the passé composé, one of my life-time weaknesses. Not any more. It’s hopefully sinking in this time, sans the distraction of teen hormones.

Why the Van Gogh link? Yesterday I visited Carrière des Lumières and Le Baux de Provence Village. Experienced a stunning sound and light show in a soaring troglodyte cave. I was surrounded by animated paintings of Van Gogh, and another artist, famous, Japanese but that’s all I remember. The soundtrack was passionate music, contemporary and classical. Nina Simone’s rich voice was perhaps in the mix, but I couldn’t say what else. Was too engrossed in the vastness and splendour. The crowds didn’t even bother me. I was having a private ethereal experience. What’s more, I know I’m having a good time when  tears leak unbidden and silent. Don’t question it when you feel joy. Just go with the flow.

Ah, I’m getting all moist-eyed now writing about it, especially sitting here in a café in Aix, typing with two fingers, sun glinting off the screen of my iPad.

Despite the crudeness of my accommodation here in Aix, the experience is amazing. My French prof is rigorous and intelligent, my type of teacher. She’s picked up my areas for improvement and is addressing them. Unlike in my youth, I know now how to study. I’m doing my devoirs and revising like a demon. Hopefully, I’ll emerge from my immersion vastly more accurate and fluent. On verra - we’ll see.

There’s more, but I’ll save that for another time lest I wear out my welcome in this café with its excellent WiFi.

Put it down to Jet Lag.

3.27 am. ‘Comfort Single Room,’ somewhere in Paris.
Jet lag meine Freute. That’s a lame parody of the title of a Bach chorale - Jesu meine Freute - Jesus my Joy. You get it. I know this couple who gave jet lag the finger in Rome by visiting all the tourist sites in the small hours. The photos were magical, as were their smiles. But given I’m alone here, I’m not quite brave enough to go wandering, even in this quiet arrondissement - district - of Paris. I’m defeating JL in my own practical way. Great time to alphabetise my travel wardrobe. No. Cheap unfunny line. But I did roll and categorise. Not me on the floor, my clothes into packing cells.

I’m trying to ditch some weight. Again, not from me, from my rucksack on wheels. I’m fine. Will be even finer after lugging that capacious behemoth up and down too many steps between Charles de Gaulle airport and my hotel in the thirteenth.

My room is actually a perfectly comfortable single. Which sleeps three. Albeit compactly. Great shower. Good locale with lots of choice for eating and shopping. What am I? Trip Advisor?

No bouloir  - kettle  - in the room but there’s hot and cold in Reception. Water, not service. Farque. JL. Loving the licence it affords one! It’s like being drunk. Perhaps I’ll regret this blog post later.  Unfortunately, the hot water dispenser wasn’t working. Meant the night concierge had to get up off his improvised bed to boil a regular kettle. Nice of him. I even got to practise a little French. ‘Vous êtes un ange,’ - you’re an angel - I said, bowing at him, my hands folded in prayer. Wonder what he thought of my bra-less nightie-leggings ensemble. With all due respect to myself, I didn’t think there’d be anyone at the water dispenser at 2.30 am in a petit hotel in a quiet Paris district.

Now. About my missing wallet, euros - not all of them - and that little divet that you use to remove a SIM. Total mystery. Was I robbed? If so, with skills like that the thief is an artist who deserves their own reality TV show. Such sleight of hand. Magic. Or did I inadvertently leave the wallet somewhere  while I was doing something? (Set that precedent in Munich in 1980. Still got the mauve beret but never saw the travellers cheques again.)

I’ll know in 24 hours whether I’ve developed a cold. A little jetset princess did more than a few point blank coughs into my face as she slept, kicked and snotted her little way from Melbourne to Doha.  Possibly why her mum and dad had her relocated to the spare seat next to me. (Another bloke and I thought we’d lucked out with the space between us until 90 minutes into the flight.) The parents had to consider what was best for them and their other child. I jest. No idea why that poor kid got stuck between two strangers. C’est la vie.

Won't be lonely on my travels: meet Diabetica

I was a fearless 23 year old when I packed, then re-packed too many times, my enormous rucksack preparing for my first overseas trip, well, not counting emigrating to Australia 15 years prior. My girlfriend and I practised hoisting these monsters onto our slight respective shoulders. Seemed easy enough in her front lounge-room. Palled quite quickly getting on and off trains and finding accommodation in England and Europe. On a four week trip around France, Germany and Italy, even the pages of a bulky Europe on $15 a day guidebook were unnecessary weight. Disposed of them as we went. Paris, rip. Nice, rip. Florence, rip. And so on. All the way back to England for our flights home - by which stage my travel companion and I were no longer on speaking terms.

Wasn't much fun, that trip. My chain-smoking friend and I tired of each other's company after a couple of weeks but we still had to do another four, often sharing a bed. We froze, given we were Australian  teachers taking advantage of our long summer holidays which of course coincided with the bleakest winter weather on the other side of the planet. I picked up a rotten virus sleeping ten to a room in a pension in Florence. But mostly I was desperate for big Al, whom I hadn't planned on when I'd planned that trip. Decided that in the future I wouldn't travel anywhere without him.

There were actually three of us on my next trip to Europe: Al, me and another demanding passenger who needed constant attention. Why not personify Type 1 diabetes? I'll call her Diabetica. She and I had started our life-long journey together three years earlier. She still likes to dominate and if she doesn't get her way she makes me pay. Had to learn to do it her way, as I discovered when I regained consciousness in the back of an ambulance on our first night in London. Diabetica and I had become accustomed to how she'd behave during my workaday Australian routine. Didn't know that she'd go berserk trying to fathom the effects of too much exercise and an eight hour time difference. You learn these things as you go.

I started writing a journal on 1st April, 1985. I'm glancing at it now. Everything was blissful and beautifully handwritten for the first page and a third. My aunt and uncle had met us at Heathrow and later dropped us at our hotel - where our booking had gone missing but we were accommodated anyway. We wandered around London, bought a leather jacket for Al (subsequently stolen in the south of France but that's another story.) We ate, we drank. I wrote that 'my dogs were killing me'. Must have walked miles. Later the same day we met some Australian friends for dinner then back to our hotel. 'Fell into bed at approx. 9.30 absolutely jiggered,' I wrote. 'Slept very deeply until I woke up at the desperately hypoglycemic stage...I grabbed one of the sweets at the side of the bed and woke Allan.' Won't detail the feeling of losing consciousness and having a seizure, but even without rereading what I'd written back then I can still remember the terror of fading out and not being able to stop it. (Later it led to nearly 7 years of panic disorder, but again, that's another story.) I've glued the admissions card from University College Hospital, London onto page 3 of that first journal. In my attempt to analyse what led to that hypoglycemic episode, the only one requiring medical intervention in my 38 years of living with my Type 1 twin, I've recorded the number of 'portions' I ate at dinner -  that's how we did it back then; 1 portion = 10 grams of carbohydrate. I'd injected an evening mix of 16 units of Actrapid insulin and 14 units of Protaphane insulin. I finger-prick-tested my blood glucose using a bulky Glucometer and had three injections - using plastic syringes - a day. It's still complex managing my condition, my constant passenger, my occasional succubus, but living with diabetes today is a free-wheeling cycle down a gentle slope compared to life back then. Still, our six month trip around Europe in an orange VW combi-van remains one of the most delicious experiences of my life.

Said I wouldn't travel without Al again, but Diabetica and I, are travelling alone together to France next week. Al gets a break, but of course I'm stuck with her. Nowadays, with the help of an intuitive insulin pump that delivers insulin according to the data from a subcutaneous Continuous Glucose Monitor, I can mostly work out what Diabetica is doing . But mindful of what she might do out of her comfort zone, much of my carry on luggage will comprise of countable carbohydrate snacks to keep her tempests at bay. I've even bought a silicone band for my wrist pronouncing that the wearer is 'Diabetique' - sounds almost romantic - should capricious Diabetica decide to attention-seek in the streets or subways of Paris.

Actually, if I drop my tedious metaphor the fact is that I'm travelling solo. I haven't been this excited since I had my second baby, 31 years ago. I'm going to Aix-en-Provence to do a two week intensive language immersion home-stay with a French teacher.

Should be interesting.