This is story #38 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
38. Italy, Here We Come!
I suppose one could say that, having been forced to depart in May from the high school because of the nationwide strikes in France in May 1968, my teacher friend, Paulette, and I, along with my Paulette’s sister, Marianne (who likewise had had all her university classes cancelled) and the latter’s friend, Marie, needed something to take our minds off the chaos that was going on in the country. Everything was closed, with strikes and riots taking place day and night. France was at a standstill. There was little else for us to do. Even the radio and television programmes transmitted only taped music. It was almost frightening to know that 40 million Frenchmen were on strike, demanding that the archaic systems imposed in the universities and in the workforce be modernized. None of us knew at that time that the strike was to last for almost two months.
We began to wonder what we could do during the fast-approaching summer holidays. I was going to be heading home to my parents in Rhodesia, but I had several weeks in which to do so. I needed to be back at my university in Salisbury by September, but I wanted to fit in a visit to Britain to say goodbye to my grandmother, my aunt, and my brother, John. Apart from that, I was free. So, too, were my three French friends, since all were waiting for a new academic year to begin in September, by which time we hoped the strikes would have ended.
So, one day, we four young ladies put on our thinking caps as we sat at the table in the tiny house belonging to Paulette and Marianne’s parents. Why didn’t we take a trip somewhere? Where to? How long for? How much money did we have? I was earning almost nothing as an “assistante”, and both Marianne and Marie were students. So, we weren’t about to fly anywhere exotic. We could not afford it.
“Let’s go camping, but not in France. That’s boring! How about if we camp our way round Italy for a month?”, someone suggested. “Sensass!” We all agreed that this was a fabulous idea.
So, we began poring over maps, working out our route. We needed to head south-east to Lyons, where we could visit the Roman arena, for instance, and from where we could take the highway to the French Riviera. The French Riviera, no less! It sounded so opulent, so decadent, so impossibly wealthy to me! Didn’t Brigitte Bardot have a villa there, in St. Tropez or somewhere? Didn’t most of the famous film stars live there, too, at least during the summer months? Was I really going to be seeing these places?
