Soon I’m getting the train back to Avignon so, seasoned traveller in France that I am, I went this morning to the gare to see if the train service is on strike. It seems that today, for once, it’s not. Incroyable.
Then continued on the Galeries Lafayette where I found the beauteous half-price Lejaby underwear I’d tried yesterday and not bought, and bought it. I am wearing it now, and I feel like a queen. Too bad no one can see it, but I know it’s there and carry myself accordingly. Lynn tells me that’s the secret to the sexiness of French women; they are all wearing gorgeous underwear and carry themselves accordingly. Presumably French men divine their secret too.
Did go to see the Almadovar film last night – “Etreintes Brisees” here, Broken Embraces. Did not like it much, unlike his other films. Too much exposition done way too slowly, laced with melodrama – one poor wonderful actress having to twitch and look distressed in every single shot – and predictability. What brought it to life was the stunning Penelope Cruz. How can a woman be that beautiful and that talented? It doesn’t seem fair. The Le Monde review that I just read said that the film, which was entered into competition at Cannes this year but didn’t win anything, shows that even when a good filmmaker doesn’t have any new ideas, he can still make an interesting film. I beg to differ.
Just ate too much, once more, of that perfect bread – got to get out of Montpellier just to escape that bakery. It’s actually cloudy here today, not the usual scorching sun. I’m off for a wander and a walk and then I’ll close down Julie’s. Sorry to leave her place and all these amazing books. There’s one right here on the desk called “Lima, Peking, Venice … 1688, one year in the world.” Reading the title, I thought, what about us, what about Toronto or New York? And then I realised that we in the new world barely existed as societies in 1688. Made me feel very young; an upstart.
Julie also has a bobble-head doll of Sigmund Freud and a fridge magnet of an angry-looking woman in a shop who’s saying, “This is a feminist bookstore. There IS no humour section.”
I’m reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society because Chris left it for me; otherwise it looks just too winsome and I would never have picked it up. A hundred pages in it’s terrific, however, a great read, perfect for the train which is not on strike.
