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.