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Illustration by April Dela Noche Milne
When I left Canada to study in France in 1983, I was still a teenager, in my second year of a liberal arts degree at the University of Toronto. I was the first in my family to get a postsecondary education. I knew I was lucky to be there, but nothing I was studying felt meaningful. I didn’t know where any of it was leading. I wanted to spread my wings.
One day, a bulletin board flyer at Hart House caught my eye: Third Year Study Elsewhere Program – Wine and Cheese – Everyone Welcome!
I was intrigued. My family never went on vacations. The only international flight I’d taken was when I’d immigrated from India at age three. “Elsewhere” sounded good to me. I decided to skip class and go.
At the meeting, alongside glasses of Bordeaux, wheels of brie and wedges of Roquefort, none of which I’d tasted before, an old, very French-looking professor told us we would discover a “cornucopia of French delights” – food, wine, maybe even a bit of romance – in a medieval town I’d never heard of called Aix-en-Provence. It was an easy sell.
A year, and several part-time jobs later, I boarded a flight with 12 other excited students. But when I got off the plane – tired, disoriented and hungover from the complimentary Champagne – I felt like I’d made a colossal mistake. My luggage was lost and I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying.
I anxiously boarded a bus from Marseille to Aix. To this day, I’ll never forget the feeling of stepping out at the magnificent main fountain, La Rotonde, and walking into the cool shelter of a dense, leafy arch. Enormous plane trees curved gracefully over a gorgeous boulevard, the Cours Mirabeau, which was dotted with elegant shops, cafés and mossy fountains. I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t believe I’d be living there for a year.
I searched for a room to rent and an ad in a shop window led me to a house north of Aix’s cathedral. The room was lovely, but accessed via the owner’s daughter’s bedroom. Not ideal, but I could see Mont Sainte-Victoire – Cézanne’s inspiration – from the window. No rules other than to be respectful. I took it.
My landlady and I bonded instantly. She’d taken in a student to help her daughter learn English, but enjoyed the company, too. Most afternoons, we’d sit under the cherry tree in the front yard, sipping coffee, talking, smoking the odd cigarette. A bubbly, quirky Frenchwoman of Armenian descent, she regaled me with songs, told stories of growing up and working as a haute couture seamstress in 1950s Marseille. She taught me about the Armenian genocide.
What she didn’t say was that she had a husband who had no idea I’d moved in. A psychiatric nurse by night and gambler by day, he’d never notice, she thought. It worked for a while, but late one night, he and I crashed into each other on the way to the toilet, both emitting blood-curdling screams. I hid out in my room as they battled it out for hours. Eventually, it was settled. I could stay.
Over time, my landlord and I developed a great affection for each other. He brought me fresh croissants from bakeries that were opening as he got off shift, took me to watch him play boules, to local bars for pastis and cards. Proud of his French and Greek roots, he taught me about Aixois history, introduced me to the Greek poets and his favourite author – Zola.
Soon, I was sitting down to family meals and my gastronomic world exploded. Under my landlady’s tutelage, I learned how to pick chanterelles, harvest escargots, whisk an excellent vinaigrette, select a good baguette, make béchamel, duck confit and cassoulet. We made sugared crêpes in the fireplace and roasted rabbits for countryside picnics. I discovered Le Creuset cookware.
Their home was warm and typically Provençal. Simple pleasures were indulged. There was always lively banter. No topic was off limits – religion, sex, politics – all discussed with sparkling wit. I learned the fine art of conversation.
Sure, I attended classes, partied and travelled with friends, returned home and eventually completed two degrees. But that year in Aix opened my mind and transformed me in ways I never imagined possible. It also made me fluently bilingual.
When I left, I promised to stay in touch, even to return with my kids some day, which I did. Recently, almost 40 years later, I sat under the shade of the same cherry tree with my landlady, now widowed, and reminisced for hours over a pot of Armenian coffee. I was the first of many international students she’d taken in. When we first met, she was younger than I am by a decade. Her memory is failing now. I’m not sure she’ll know me next time. I made sure to tell her how grateful I was. By letting me immerse myself in her world for a while, I got an education no book, lecture or professor could have given me, and a gift that will last me a lifetime.
Shirley Phillips lives in Toronto.