The meaning of place

I have always been drawn to vocabulary. Spoken or written, the ability to use words, descriptive and linked together eloquently with rhythm, is a gift I find real beauty in. New words, like creatures in the insect kingdom, can be found daily if looked for, yet seldom cross our path as we become repetitive in our narrative and phrasing. Cultural and language differences of course present linguistic newness, and in Wellington, New Zealand, the word Tūrangawaewae was repeated by Māori and those who work alongside them with enough frequency to need to understand its meaning, even if pronunciation would always escape me.

Tūrangawaewae’s literal translation is ‘standing place’, a concept that refers to the area of the earth where you belong, where you come from, that is yours. Like Nelson Mandela in Long Walk to Freedom discussing the importance of ending your life within a short distance of where you began it, Māori, in the word Tūrangawaewae, demonstrate an association with ‘home’ that defines and to some degree defends their society.

When I was eighteen, with a recently scraped C grade GCSE French still in my peripheral vision, I leapt on a ferry to France and hitch-hiked around the wine regions of the country alone for two months, interested to see if immersion would draw me to the industry my family had raised me in. Conversations were brief and limited, and I learnt quickly that a shared cigarette ‘sans filtre’ was the easiest way to enjoy company without the concern of words.

The road south

With a thumb out on the Avenue Saint-Jean just outside La Rochelle, I stood stranded for longer than I had hoped, waiting for a friendly face to lift me south towards Bordeaux. When a car did stop, it was as unrealistic to step down into as the words themselves sound now.

A Citroën DS is lower than it looks, and this one, black with a heavy interior, was driven by a large man, seventy-five years plus, who made the car seem smaller than it was and uninviting with his lack of smile or ‘Bonjour’. Attempts at conversation were not responded to as the car picked up pace and I felt its hydropneumatic suspension float me round the corners out of town. The driver lit a cigarette and, in not offering me one, left me sitting in silence staring out of the window, where the lack of interesting countryside gave me time to examine the interior of this extraordinary car. Cobwebs hung from the back window, the back seats as covered in dust as the dashboard, whose dials you could not see apart from the fuel gauge, which a finger had drawn a line across earlier that day. This car had not been driven for years; this was not a man who travelled far, certainly not according to this vehicle.

An hour and a half is a long time not to talk, to converse, to make eye contact, and as we pulled off left into the dark, mould-covered limestone village of Cognac, I could not wait to step out and find my own space again. I pointed to the signpost for ‘Camping’, a route he headed towards, before, within sight of canvas, he frustratingly turned left and drew into the central town square.

“He used a drink to show me his home, his standing place.”

Three glasses

I felt uncomfortable when we pulled up outside the local café bar and he guided me in. This man of silence, a human seemingly so uninterested, sat me at the bar, seated himself next to me and ordered three Cognacs: VS, VSOP and XO. We sat and sipped. He pointed at the ‘Wine Regions of France’ on the top of my rucksack and smiled. Watching me closely now, he made sure the order in which I swallowed the three glasses was measured and correct. On finishing, and on refusing to accept my French francs, we climbed back into his car and drove to the campsite, where I shook his hand and offered a weak ‘au revoir’.

Sitting on the grass bank where he dropped me, I pulled a soft pack of Gitanes from my pocket and thought about the last few hours, collecting thoughts of the wordless incident that subconsciously drew me into the world of wine. The final moments of an uncomfortable journey in which I met a man who, with great pride and feeling, used a drink to show me his home, his standing place.