A collection of humans, brought together in the same room for the first time, revealing themselves in an unprecedented intimacy – that’s what Thomas offered me for my birthday, among other things.

Knowing that I was incapable of masking my disappointment, and dreading bad ones, I had long decreed, like Sacha Guitry, that I didn’t like surprises, and dissuaded anyone from giving me one. So I applaud Thomas’s audacity in organizing, behind my back, an incredible birthday weekend, with visits from two dear friends who had taken the train down from Paris, and a mystery pre-dinner activity on Saturday evening, where we were joined by more “local” friends.

A daydream or a film in which I’m the heroine, it begins on Saturday lunchtime, the camera pans forward, close-up on Estelle looking for me as she leaves Montpellier Sud De France station, followed closely by Ariane who has taken the same train. The uninterrupted line of cars at the drop-off had delayed me a little, but from my little gray Twingo, I soon spotted them and pulled over to let them on, and they immediately took note of my quasi-summer outfit of jeans and T-shirt, wrapped up as they were in their respective winter coat and down jackets.

The temperature was exceptional, approaching 20 degrees, and after a gourmet coffee break on the boat – I’d just about prepared a chocolate fondant before their arrival – we went for a euphoric swim at Carnon beach that afternoon. We lounged, chatted, they made themselves at home in the “villa” we’d been lent for the occasion, and we returned to the boat all dolled up, ready to go out I-don’t-know-where-but-I-have-a-slight-idea-anyway.

Then Michèle, my new theater friend, joins us, as if by chance, just as we’re about to set off. With the departure of the next streetcar posted more than twenty minutes later, Thomas suggests that we walk to the next station so as not to just sit back and wait, and then, another surprise, we bump into Christelle and Marlène. They all know where we’re going and what our mystery activity is, and try to sound me out. All I have to do is write a letter – just one, but which counts double – on a piece of paper, which I keep hidden in my handbag, for them to understand that I know perfectly well that we’re about to have a blast not in a kayak, but in karaoke!

When we arrive in Jost, Erna is waiting for us at the bar, the latest addition to our short-lived girls band. We’re settled into our booth, the system is explained, and thankfully it’s in French, not Korean like the only time I’d ever taken part in karaoke of this kind in New Zealand. 4 Non Blondes (as I write this, I understand the irony of the name!), Bashung, The Beatles, Michel Berger, Brel, Noir Désir, Nino Ferrer, Gainsbourg, Fools Garden, Aretha Franklin, Patricia Kaas, Keane, Nat King Cole, Freddy Mercury, Piaf, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Renaud, go through the pans until Oasis gets even truncated by the machine due to time running out. And despite the primacy of the situation, despite the cheap arrangements, despite the musical massacre, we laughed to our hearts’ content, awakening memories of the past and wishing for the future.

The evening would not have been complete without its share of galleys, so, after a very copious African dinner at La Saint Louisienne (note the not insignificant name, for those who know that Thomas and I met in Saint Louis), where we learn of the marabout tendencies of one of us who confesses to curing the indiscipline of her pupils by “freezing” them, we scorn the streetcar (announced fifty minutes later), book a shared cab (cancelled at the last minute), and opt for the Vélomagg as a low-carbon means of locomotion, immediately available and whose journey time rivals that of the cab or streetcarif you consider the waiting time. But we don’t know Montpellier like the back of our hand yet, so we get our route mixed up and end up at Port Marianne just after midnight, freezing (especially Ariane, who incidentally has bronchitis, which we blithely ignored) and desperately looking for a plan B to get back to our cars in Pérols. With the neighborhood’s bike-share stations all full, we end up hopping on the last streetcar (the one we initially rejected), crowded with our Vélomagg, which we reconnect at the terminus, where, thank God, there are still enough empty spaces.

Departures were staggered throughout the evening, and after a final herbal tea in the villa with Thomas, Ariane and Estelle, we returned to our boat just after 2 am. The next day, Sunday, we wake up late. It’s colder and less inviting than the day before. Mouse-grey skies, pancake brunch and a brief stroll to the pink flamingos. Massage, chat, brief game of Code Names with Ariane and Christelle, and final goodbyes. At the end of the afternoon, when all my girlfriends have left, along with a few new second-hand books, yogi tea bags with their more or less inspiring aphorisms, and a tango shoe bag hand-stitched from colorful fabric scraps (my friends know me well), I retain the memory of a magical moment co-created by virtue of devoted love and enduring reticular friendships.