In Bloom

I had never seen so much yellow and confetti in my life.1

Garlands of yellow mimosa hung between the buildings leading to and from Place de Gaulle in Biot, draped like Christmas decorations left up a month too long. Confetti covered the streets like the snow that the South of France only sees once in 20 years. Giant paper maché characters lined the streets that led to the town square. Grosses-têtes, they were called. Big heads.2

Children dressed as Spiderman, Winnie the Pooh, and a cowboy chased each other around the town square. Meanwhile, the adults danced to American chart-toppers like the 1987 hit, “Heaven is a Place on Earth.” Those not paying attention to the music threw confetti and squirted silly string at each other. Others stood watching.3

Large mimosa trees stood at the edge of the town square, strapped to lampposts that had been bare before. At first, the branches resembled yellow lilacs, with their clusters of small round bulbs, but as I got closer, I saw that the flowers looked and felt exactly like the miniature pom poms you can buy at craft stores. 4

The sweet scent reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite place it. It almost smelled like a blend of freshly cut grass, clean laundry, and a grandmother's perfume.5

A small float drove by, carrying two men clutching bags of mimosa branches. Everyone gathered around, even those who were already carrying bouquets larger than their heads. Following the crowd’s example, I reached my arms out. One of the men noticed that my hands were empty and threw me a large branch. The stem felt wet as I caught it.6

As they drove away, a marching band approached. The writing on the big, white tuba read, "La Jeunesse Niçoise." The youth of Nice. In the back, four people played bugles. I smiled as I noticed their pinkie fingers tucked under their instruments, exactly the way I was taught to hold mine when I was in a bugle band in high school.7

It was the words “fanfare” and “majorettes” on the posters that drew me to the town square that Sunday afternoon. I figured it meant there would be a marching band, and I wanted to see something familiar. Not that I missed Canada. In fact, it was the opposite. I wanted something that would bring an aspect of my life in Canada to France. A physical representation of how strongly I was beginning to feel I belonged.8

As the band marched away, I turned to look back at the stage and a handful of confetti landed on my head and shoulders. I decided to pinch off a small piece of mimosa from the branch I had caught and place it behind my ear. I ended up buying my own bag of confetti, and asked someone to take a photo of me with one of the Grosses-têtes. Everyone had cameras that day, so for the first time in the five months I had been on exchange in France, I didn’t feel like a tourist.9

~*~10

Starting in late January, the mimosa begins to bloom in the Côte d’Azur. For at least two months, the southeastern section of France becomes a bright yellow blot on the map. It could just as easily be called the Côte d’Or, or the golden coast, when the yellow countryside rivals the blue of the Mediterranean Sea for attention.11

But the mimosa is not actually native to France. Originally from Australia, it was introduced to Europe in the mid-nineteenth century by English aristocrats decorating the gardens of their winter homes.12

Finding the climate favourable and familiar, the mimosa thrived. Now, over a century and a half later, it is considered as much a part of the French Riviera as baguettes, the Mediterranean Sea and the French language itself.13

~*~14

I breathed in and out slowly, holding the phone to my ear. The line sounded dead, but I knew my mom was still listening, no matter how painful it was to hear my sobbing in her ear. This conversation would have been easier for both of us online, but internet was expensive in my building. It was cheaper for both of us if she called me.15

For my first two months in France, the Residéal studio apartment in Antibes had seemed small and cramped. My roommates had slept on bunk beds in the narrow entrance corridor across from the two-part bathroom, while I slept in the common area. My room was also the kitchen, living room, and dining room. I cherished the hours they weren’t in the apartment, blaring their music, or taking pre-club shots of Jagermeister with boys from school.16

But then, they announced they were moving to another apartment building to be closer to the other exchange students. That left me to pay a full month’s rent by myself with only two week’s notice. I had not budgeted for that.17

“So, Auntie Sandra, Auntie Debi, and Uncle Markie are all giving me some money to send you for your rent.”18

I felt like a failure. I had only been in France two full months, and my family already needed to bail me out. I started crying again. A few moments passed before I repeated the same sentence I had been saying for the past few days.19

“Mom, I just want to come home...”20

She let me cry. 21

“Honey, then come home,” she said as I gained a bit more composure. “No one would think any less of you.”22

The lump in my throat exploded into a fresh batch of sobs at the thought of quitting.23

I would.24

~*~25

In many parts of the world, flowers begin to grow in the spring. The sight of fresh buds growing out of bright green stems is a sign that it is time to switch to lighter jackets and throw our scarves in the closet until fall rolls around.26

But, the French Riviera is not like most parts of the world. In the coldest of the winter months, the mimosa begins to bloom. Often called winter suns, the bright yellow buds announce that the coldest time of year is not quite over, but that it will only get warmer from that point on. 27

Some would argue that winter on the Cote d'Azur isn't even a winter at all. The mild, Mediterranean climate rarely allows a temperature below zero, and instead of snow, they get rain. Even frost is rare.28

Still, to those who live there, a mild winter is still winter. The moisture in the air makes it feel colder than it actually is, and people still walk around outside wearing scarves and gloves. They light their fireplaces and curl up in blankets to keep warm indoors. 29

It just takes a glimpse of the fresh, yellow pom poms to remind them how lucky they are. Their struggle, however small, is worth it.30

~*~31

My first Sunday in France, I attempted to go to church. My roommates and I had walked past one the night before. I made a wrong turn that day. I didn’t recognize any of the streets.32

I asked two separate passing men where I could find a Catholic church. Both told me to keep following the road. It didn’t seem to be leading anywhere, but I had already started; I might as well walk all the way.33

About a half hour later, I arrived at a small stone church with a slanted roof. The patchy grey stones gave it a distinct medieval feel. There was a spacious courtyard out front with four benches and a decorative archway topped with rippled roof shingles. It wasn't the church I had seen before, but that didn't matter. I walked to the door, disappointed to see that the mass was ending. The priest was giving the final blessing. I had missed it.34

I loitered outside until everyone left, and then entered the empty church to read my book of bible passages from that day’s mass.35

A few minutes later, an old man with sparse white hair closed the front door, turned off the lights, and blew out the candles. I took the hint and started to walk toward the door.36

He stopped me, said something and motioned me back to the pew. I asked, “Pardon,” and he repeated himself with easier words.37

“Vous pouvez rester prier si vous voulez,” he told me. You can stay and pray if you'd like. 38

That was Maurice. Over the next three months, he would occasionally come up to me at mass and ask if I would do a reading. I always declined. I wasn't confident enough in my French to read out loud in front of a congregation. Still, every week, I looked up at him and the small choir standing near the altar. They reminded me of my church choir at home. 39

So, one Sunday in November, I walked to the front of the church and asked if I could sing with them.40

~*~41

It took several trips from the car, but my two suitcases, three carry-on-sized bags, CD binder, and a large reusable grocery bag all made it into my new room in Marie-France Fulcheri’s house. I wondered how I had accumulated so much in only three months.42

I had fallen in love with the place when I first came to see it a month before. My room wasn’t the largest I had ever rented, but was more private and homey than sleeping in the common area of a studio apartment. Three of the walls were a pale, spongey green, and the fourth was made of wooden panels, with a pair of lace-covered windows overlooking the neighbour’s house.43

A ten-minute walk from the bus stop, this house reminded me of a stereotypical cottage. Isolated, not in a lonely way, but in a hidden way. Like a secret corner of the village I could have to myself. In reality, it wasn’t very secluded, but none of the other exchange students lived in Biot. Each day became a mini pilgrimage up the Chemin du Val de Pome, the street leading to what became my home for my last six months in France. It was what I had envisioned when I submitted my exchange application.44

“Tu veux quelque chose à boire?” Marie asked me as I began to unpack. Do you want something to drink? Her high, cheerful voice and gigantic smile made me feel like I was coming home, not moving into a new house.45

“Um…Qu’est ce que vous avez?” I asked, but then worried that What do you have? may have been too informal or rude.46

She looked in the fridge for a minute and pulled out a green carton of juice.47

“Jus...Orange mangue? Ou, de l’eau…Comme tu veux …”48

“Orange mangue, s’il vous plait.”49

She poured it for me in a green Coca Cola glass, and I brought it into my room to sip as I unpacked.50

I had never tasted orange mango juice before, but it quickly became a necessity any time I went grocery shopping at Carrefour. 51

~*~52

Nowadays, gardeners all over the world dread the invasion of foreign plants. To many, exotic is not synonymous with exciting. The gardeners fear for the wellbeing of the native plants, which often become overrun by the new. Though the new plant may be nice to look at, it is better left in its country of origin.53

But, the aristocrats who brought the mimosa to the South of France didn't have this fear. By the time this mentality set in, the people had already fallen in love with the foreign flower. Now, the mimosa’s yearly arrival is a cause for celebration.54

Although from an entirely different hemisphere, the mimosa has put down deep roots in the French Riviera. It is a perennial flower, so even though its presence is fleeting, it comes back every year. In return, every January, arms reach out for it. To cradle it. To embrace it. To enjoy it while it lasts.55

~*~56

“Un jour, une petite voix a dit ‘est-ce que je peux chanter avec vous?’”57

I began to cry and hid my face behind my bright yellow sheet of music.58

It was my last Sunday singing in the choir of St. Joseph d’Azurville parish in Antibes, nine months and three days since arriving in France. Michèle was telling the entire congregation I was leaving, by talking about my arrival. One day, a little voice said ‘May I sing with you?’59

Nicole and Monique put their arms around me, comforting me as if I were their own granddaughter. The more I tried to hide from them, the more they tried to pull my sheet of paper down. I heard Michele give a speech I would have understood if I could have brought myself to listen. She finished with, “Aujourdhui, on chant cette chanson pour elle.” Today, we sing this song for her.60

I listened to them sing, and occasionally tried to join in myself, despite my shaky voice.61

“Le vent souffle où il veut. Et toi, tu entends sa voix. Mais tu ne sais pas d’où il vient, et tu ne sais pas où il va. Le vent, le vent.” 62

The wind blows where it wants. And you, you listen to its voice. But you don’t know where it comes from, and you don’t know where it is going. The wind, the wind.63

I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.64

~*~65

J'ai le mal du pays.66

I first learned this phrase when I asked a local girl at my school in France how to say, "I'm homesick." But, there is no word in the French phrase that actually means, "home." Translated, it really means, "I'm country-sick." When I had asked how to say it, I was homesick for Canada. This time, I'm France-sick.67

I even felt it during my last few weeks there. I missed the steep stone walkways leading up the hill to the old village while I was still walking on them, ashamed that I didn't take the time to walk them more often. While I was still eating them, I missed the sweet, flaky palmiers and pain au chocolat. I missed the Dragibus candies that were the shape of jujubes and the consistency of jelly beans, but tastier than both combined. I missed the game show "Attention à la marche" as I was watching it in the airport, waiting to fly home. I even missed the mimosa as I searched a tree in March for a cluster that had no dying bulbs. I knew we would both be gone soon. I would be there a few months longer, but at least the mimosa knew it would be back the following January. 68

I feel it now that I've been back for nine months – the same amount of time I lived there. Occasionally, when google earth and pictures of the Fête du Mimosa aren't enough, I pull out a small Tupperware container, not much bigger than a coaster. 69

I open it carefully to avoid breaking what it holds. Inside, on a padding of folded up Ziploc bags, sits a pinky-sized branch of dried mimosa. Just enough to place behind my ear, though it’s too fragile for that now.70

I hold it lightly between my fingers, and bring it up to my nose.71

It’s faint, but I can still smell a hint of the original sweetness behind the slightly stale dried flower scent. The clean, grassy, grandmother fragrance is still difficult to place, but now, to me, it smells like winter on the Mediterranean Sea.72

I smile as I remember that I never actually said "goodbye" to France. Almost every French farewell implies a reunion. The "revoir" in "au revoir" means "to see again," and I fully intend to keep my word.