That little girls showing off her skirt which she had just been given by her parents, is me – Elisabeth Pia Britt-Marie Wiberg. The photo was taken in Menton, France, where I lived with my parents for a while. Menton is on the French Riviera, about 10 minutes east of Nice – well it used to be 10 minutes east. These days Nice is huge, surrounds Monaco and is adjacent to Menton. Which looks like nothing I remember …
The picture shows me next to a village carved out of the rock, water is trickling down the middle of the carved village. I always believed, and thought I was told, that it was a carving of Mention but … It was located on the east side of Menton because as I recall, you reached the border to Italy very quickly walking the main road…
Our house was not far away, you would walk along the main road away from the border, past some shops, past the bakery and then turn right and walk up the hill a bit. Our house was two stories and there was a huge Mimosa tree outside it, my bedroom window opened to the Mimosa tree and at night it smelled heavenly. The house had a garden but most of it was “natural” as I recall, not so much planted or with paths like an English garden.
Our dining room was upstairs, and I remember one evening we were having dinner at the table when my father’s chair suddenly lurched to his right. He exclaimed and was clearly in pain. I don’t know if a doctor came to the house or if my father went to a hospital; evidently his chair had sunk into the parquet floor and twisted which injured his meniscus in his knee. He was forever afterwords complaining about pain in his knee.
My living in Mention came to an abrupt halt one Christmas. My father had taken me down to the beach, either right before or after Christmas Eve, for a walk. It was a nice warm day with lots of sunshine and blue sky, no clouds, we were not even wearing coats! I was collecting colored glass which was abundant on that beach. It was polished by the sea and looked to me like jewels. I was not very happy because it was not Christmassy to me, no snow, no crunching when you walked, no “advents ljus” (the four advent candles) in every window, no Swedish Christmas Carols to be heard … I complained about this to my father. He took me by the hand and we walked quickly back home. When home I could hear my father making several phone calls, while my mother was in my room doing something in my wardrobe. Then my father, mother and I were in the car and we drove to Nice.
Next I found myself on an airplane after my parents waved me good bye. I was met in Stockholm by an aunt I think, and then taken to Ruth and Ville Skold, a couple who were to look after me many times more in the years to come.
I got what I wanted: crunchy snow, the candles in the windows, the Christmas Carols still being sung … Oh, how things have changed.
