5 o'Clock Somewhere #3
Two countries, two writers, one shared moment. This edition: France and the USA.
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Dear NE-One
A few months ago, curious to see how time unfurled in different places around the planet, I asked pairs of writers to sit down at exactly the same time and record the world around them. It was a project to which women gave freely of their time, and I am so very grateful for the perspectives they shared, thoughtfully weaving together ‘ordinary’ moments that would likely otherwise have been lost.
In October I sent you the first instalment of 5 o’Clock Somewhere, with
capturing 5pm in Sydney, Australia, while at that exact time was sitting down to breakfast in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. In November I shared the essays written by Khare, who at 5pm was taking a sunset walk around a lake near Bangalore, India, while Maria was preparing lunch on a yacht in the Mediterranean.This month, we look back to the Northern Hemisphere’s autumn when, at 5pm, Gaenor du Plessis – a South African chef living in France – walked through central Strasbourg, France, while writer, photographer and van-dweller April Isaacs warmed herself beside a fire in New Mexico, USA.
The women were separated by 8,532km, but connected through time. Here is how that moment unfolded:
5pm – Strasbourg, France
It’s 5 o’clock and I’m standing at the Strasbourg train station. Typical of this city valleyed between the Vosges and Black Forest mountain ranges, the autumnal gloom that arrived two days ago is omnipresent: the weather is dark, grey and damp, and the modern façade of the station melds into the low-hanging mist. The station itself is lit up, warm and inviting beyond the domed glass.
Commuters weave around me, clad in dark coats, scarves and woolly bonnets; many wear large earphones. Either on foot or on bicycles, and carrying backpacks or satchels or dragging suitcases behind them, nobody stops for anything, barely even the sole traffic light that monitors the single stream of cars allowed to pass this way. For a brief moment I am stationary, observing the rush-hour chaos from beneath my bright Red Riding Hood coat.
Now I flick the EarPods from my ears and a cacophony of other sounds flood my senses: bicycle bells dinged out of frustration. A car sweeping past. And voices: French mostly, but also German, Spanish, Italian, English.
I turn to walk down the pedestrianised road that carves a wide swathe into the tourist centre of this town. A two-laned bicycle path cuts through the middle, marked by painted bicycles on the road. On either side, brasserie-style restaurants spill onto the pavement. Now, too cold for the terraces to be full, only the brave take a table for apéro, a pre-dinner drink. Ashtrays overflow. A half-pint of Picon bier or a glass of local Riesling is often the order of the day in this weather. Alongside the restaurants or kebab takeaways there are off-brand clothing retailers, cell-phone repair shops, hotels and one single nod to global recognition: Starbucks.
As I follow the road closer to la Cathedrale, I cross the bridge over the canal that circumnavigates the old city, and the shops change: artisan cheese stores, percale linen, English ceramic, French label clothing and a gourmand épicerie. I take a wide berth around a rowdy clutch of drunks gathered under a tree.
At this hour the streetlights aren’t on yet and as the autumn gloom brings the nighttime in, only the cafes and bakeries give light to the streets. An old flower vendor turned café has single tables with chairs facing outwards: it is common to people-watch in this country, or to have an idle conversation with the person sitting alone at a table a foot away. Now, a couple is laughing; she is drawn into his delightful energy by a beautiful dog seeking attention.
Finally I see something I’d expected to find: children trick-or-treating. It’s Old Hallows Eve and, very young, the hands of the little witch and pirate are held tight by their mom. Predictably, it is the chocolatier who has proffered a treat: the French don’t hold this festival with as much regard as the Americans.
At last, just past a tram and behind a roasted chestnut vendor, I see the imposing spire of the cathedral with her gothic gargoyles and magnificent rose window – and I know I am home.
Gaenor du Plessis is a professional chef who documents snippets of daily life through ‘long, opinionated newsletters filled with emotion and observations’ on her blog and more recently on her Substack. She lives in the small French city of Strasbourg, along the Rhine River and bordering Germany, with her teenage daughters and proudly South African husband.
9am – Ojo Caliente, New Mexico
Last night it was 24 degrees Fahrenheit in the campground. The heater in the van wasn’t working so I put on all my warm layers, including my hat, then got down under the comforter and survived. Now it’s 9am and I’m sitting beside the fire in the spa lobby at the Ojo Caliente hot springs. The fire crackles. The water fountain trickles. Native American flute music plays. It’s Halloween and some of the employees behind the front desk are in costume: one woman is Beetlejuice in a black and white striped blazer. Hardly anyone is in the pools this morning. I am thankful for the wifi and the warmth, because I have a meeting to prep for, and no one who will be on that call has the slightest idea that I live in a van or that I will be taking the call, glamorously for once, from this sumptuous spa lobby.
No state in the US smells as good as New Mexico, especially after the rain, or in the hot sun, or even on frigid and bright mornings like today. It’s fresh with desert herbs like sage and when it gets cold, it’s the local pinon wood that people burn in their fireplaces. That pinon-burning smell is so rich and full of sap. The leaves, bright yellow right now, make me think of my friend Anna because it’s her favourite colour. She said the colour means joy, power and raw energy – and she is all of those things. This land is all of those things, too.
The manager, a woman with cherry red hair like the woman in Run Lola Run, started the fire this morning with her young daughter sitting nearby. As her mother built the fire, the little girl – who must be about five – forgot her fear of strangers and said to me, “Watch! Watch!” pointing at the flames.
The little girl is sitting across from me now. Her mother put an iPad in her lap, but the girl’s not interested in it and this gives me hope for humanity. Her eyes float all over the lobby. Now she has fallen into a sensory daze over the silver studs on the arms of her chair. She traces them with her tiny index finger. Now she’s staring at me. I smile, introduce myself, then asked her name, but her voice is so faint I can’t hear her reply. She’s shy. There’s something so sweet about that shyness. We hate shyness in adults, but in children and animals it is precious, delicate, and endearing. One false move and the shy and magical creature will vanish.
The front doors are opening more frequently now, and couples in robes and sandals wander in. Now the little girl has vanished. I didn’t even notice. I hear her heavy pattering in the gift shop. She is probably looking for her mother.
April Isaacs is a writer and photographer who left her beloved home in New Orleans to live in a van called Firefly. On her Substack The Ecstatic Wanderer she writes about life as a solo camper, a woman of the wilderness, and her journey to find a home within herself. April is currently working on a memoir about her nomadic years in North America.
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