Autobiography

Vichy is New York

How I was dying in Indonesia and revived in Vichy.

If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere

When I was 24, I got a scholarship to learn French at CAVILAM (Centre audiovisuel de langues modernes) in Vichy. I had never been overseas to a country that didn’t have English as a favoured language.

But I couldn’t wait to leave Indonesia. Twenty-four year old me was dying.

My diary entry from 7 May 1996 reads:

I’m feeling trapped. I liked it more when I was alone. Nothing that I do seems to be good enough [for my parents]. What I do doesn’t get recognition. I don’t feel valued. I wonder if anybody would miss me if I died.

So I took the first opportunity to leave Indonesia without my parents.

I didn’t really speak French before going there. But that was the point, wasn’t it? I practiced saying the important stuff like “Un café et un croissant, s’il vous plaît.”

Feeling confident that my accent rolled off my tongue comfortably, I walked into a cafe on my first day in Vichy. I announced my wishes.

I dashed out a few seconds later in tears. Sans coffee; sans croissant.

Yes, I had prepared and knew what I would say. But I wasn’t prepared for a response other than a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a warm croissant. The person at the counter said something or asked me something. I had no clue about the words coming out of his mouth.

I turned and fled. Embarrassed.

Park by the river Allier in Vichy. Photo by Chastagner Thierry on Unsplash

I sat on a park bench by the river Allier, full of shame. Who did I think I was to be able to survive independently? Not only away from my parents for the first time, but also in a place where I didn’t speak the language.

I wiped away the tears and rushed back to my homestay. It was the middle of the day, nobody was home. I dug out my return plane tickets.

This was 1996. Plane tickets were actual paper tickets, one for each leg of the trip. I’d take them to the nearest travel agent and get them changed to leave as soon as I can.

My heart sank.

Reading the words in English on an Air France ticket: Not valid before 30 June, 1996.

I was stuck there for A MONTH! AAARGHHH!! I was cursing my stubbornness and my boldness.

Fine! I’ll stay!

Marianne, my host-mother, came home with her dog Yitzal and a carload of shopping. I helped her carry the shopping to the kitchen. “I invite friends dinner,” she said in her broken English. Would I like to help her cook?

Sure!

Can’t speak French, but cooking I knew like the back of my hand.

She soon discovered my passion for cooking. She invited her friends over more often. “Laila va cuisiner ce soir!” she would say. It felt like we hosted dinner parties every Friday night.

It was heartwarming how much they loved what I thought was just day to day food. Like stir-fried broccoli. They were amazed that I cooked it so that it was still bright green and crunchy.

I stayed. I learnt French. I cooked dinner for Marianne and her friends.

It was meant to be for a month. I stayed till the last day of my 90-day Schengen Visa. And I made the most of it.

24 year old me, at the doorway of the Vichy house. I made that blue jacket I’m wearing here. It went around the world with me. I was also wearing it in the picture for this other piece I wrote called Not Asking.

I couldn’t change the dates for my return flight before the 30th June (my planned return date), but I could change it for later. First time, I changed it so that I can go and see the Eagles on their Hell Freezes Over World Tour in Paris at Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercy on the 8th of July 1996.

I became fluent enough in conversational French. I called the agency that gave me the scholarship and asked if I could stay for another term. The person was surprised. When I first arrived I called to thank them for the scholarship and only spoke English. This time I only spoke French. They gave me another term. Another thirty days.

I went back to the travel agent. She looked at me and asked “Do you have another 50 Francs?” That was how much it cost to change your travel dates back then.

A screenshot from Google Street View of the Vichy house I lived in. The window on the far right, second floor was my room. The time stamp on Google Map is January this year. It does not look like it has changed at all in the past 26 years. Even the light by the door looks to be the same.

Train travel in France was the best. Fares were half price for under 25s. I’d get up Saturday morning before anybody in the house was up after a long Friday night dinner. I’d pack a small bag and walk to the train station. There, I’d look at the timetable. Where would the next train take me? One weekend I was back in Paris. Another I went to Lyon.

One Saturday I found myself walking along Lake Geneva. One of my friends insisted that my Schengen Visa was not valid for Swiss. I wanted to prove him wrong. Can you sense the streak of stubbornness there? What’s the worst that can happen? They’d just turn me around at the border, and I’d just catch the next train to back to Lyon.

To my surprise my passport got stamped at the border and the officer waved me on. I was left wondering where I’d stay the night.

This was 1996. Before Airbnbs and smartphones.

Contemplative moment looking out the bedroom window. The photo was dated 18 June 1996. The vines around the window all lush and green.

Vichy was my New York. I made it there, and I know I can make it anywhere.

I’ve often wondered what would’ve happened if I could change my plane tickets to leave early. Where would I be?

What is your New York?