Spitting Through My Fingers

by Áine Gourley (Ireland)

A leap into the unknown France

I have a friend who would sing ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ by ABBA every time she wanted permission from her Mam to do something. Her Mam would immediately become overcome with parental emotion and, more often than not, give in to her request; such is the power of ABBA. I had forgotten all about this fact until I found myself sitting in the middle seat of an airplane bound for Grenoble, France, having just said goodbye to my parents for the foreseeable future. Already feeling fragile, I decided that some music might distract my mind from the reality of moving solo to another country where no one would be able to pronounce my name without a grammar lesson in the Irish language. I pressed shuffle and let the music gods take the wheel. As soon as I heard the first bittersweet line of ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’, silent tears began to spill. ‘The fear of flying is something that can be overcome,’ madame le window seat coaxed. ‘Once you are in the air, it is really a very peaceful experience!’ monsieur le aisle seat affirmed. I nodded gratefully but really, I was quite accustomed to flying, just not without a return ticket. Living in Grenoble was like waking up to a new day. I was groggy at first, with eyes crusty and half shut until gradually, my senses awakened to the sights and sounds of the city. I decided to buy a bike; a pink 80s racer. Although stylish, it had one working break and a questionable creak. I cycled the path along the Isère river which swirled through Grenoble’s basin and felt myself slowly detaching from Dublin’s urban sprawl. The Chartreuse and Vercors mountain ranges stood stoic either side of me, like silent ships passing each other on a sea of clouds. My ears and eyes became my compass and map and the unknown became my friend. After three months of living in Grenoble, I felt like a deep-sea diver growing more comfortable plunging greater depths. New friends coloured my life and I began to navigate the French language with increasing ease. I said yes to everything, guzzling up the cultural experience, until one day I found myself with a friend, carpooling with two grenoblois at 11am to a wine tasting at a community centre 20km into the Rhône-Alpes countryside. Our travel companions were aghast as I told them that there were no mountains to ski in Ireland and no grapes grown as a result of our unique climate of rain and drizzle. I was perplexed by the idea of our driver participating in a day-long wine tasting and subsequently driving us home but decided I would confront this conundrum later. Upon entering the community centre, my initial thought was that my friend and I were the youngest in the room, and the earliest. We felt awkward but intrigued as the vignerons invited us to taste their labours of love in colours of white and red. I noticed that beside each stand, there was a grey bucket with a lid and a small opening. It seemed an unremarkable presence and so I carried on speaking with various people about climate change and permaculture vineyards. It was with the third vigneron who, upon learning that I did Irish dancing, invited me to Irish dance at his cave on St. Patrick’s Day, that I mustered up the confidence to ask what the grey bucket’s function was. Flat capped and mustached, he answered somewhat surprised, ‘They are for spitting!' Now it was my turn to be surprised. 'Spitting out the wine you taste, of course! How could you drive home if not?’ My conundrum felt comforted. Our €5 ticket for a day of wine tasting with the locals of the Auvergne countryside also included a horse-drawn jaunt around the freshly ploughed vineyards. My friend and I sat face to face as we trundled along paths of green, yellow and brown. The soundtrack of my life had changed from melancholy to the jolly clip clop of horse's hooves. The soil, the simplicity and yes, even the spitting, reminded me then to capture the feeling of every minute slipping through my fingers.