aix-en-provence

So, there I was, sweat literally dripping off my brow and my lower back clammy as an Ipswich fisherman, my rental car half way into a tiny one-way street going the wrong way, stopped. Time after time after time, I'd try putting the gear in reverse by pushing down the handle, going as far to the right as I could, but nothing, just a recalcitrant revving engine refusing to do what it was being told to do. There was starting to be a backup of cars  in the other direction, surely all wondering what this idiot was doing, stalled and blocking. Of course it was a woman. Probably a tourist. 

The kid at the Budget counter, young enough to be my grandson, had urged a10€ per day upgrade to an automatic, much more room for your luggage and much easier to drive. I stood tough, it wasn't about the money, more a statement. And I was happy with my tiny Fiat that is the granddaughter of Lowly Worm's apple car. Driving wasn't a problem at all, it was the tiny roads, and the bloody reverse! I had followed directions accurately and found the garage, but had to pull to the side to look up how to get in, which put me close to a stanchion that would require backing up hill to get into the garage. Fearful of bonking the stanchion as I didn't know the clutch yet, I decided to pull out and go around the block. So around I went and somehow took this wrong turn and there I was, stuck in, if not my worst nightmare, certainly not any kind of good dream. 

I decided I was going go pretend to be relaxing somewhere, when suddenly, I become randomly curious about how small manual Fiats reverse. So, I turned off the engine while my fellow drivers waited, and googled "fiat manual reverse". Turns out there's a little piece of metal under the gear handle that you push up and there ya go. To paraphrase one of my paddle buddies, "Save the cute for the cocktail party", Fiat.  There was only a minor drama when I took the car down a parking ramp so steep I seriously worried it would topple over, head over heels, but I got it in, jimmied my stuff out, and regretted renting the apple car for a week when I didn't ever want to battle with it again!

Minutes later, there I was in my next idiot tourist scenario, dragging along two big suitcases on tony cobblestone streets, bumpity, bumpity, bumpity times 2 while poor, peaceful Aixios (or less commonly, Aquisextains) tried to ignore the racket and enjoy their lunches outside on a beautiful, otherwise quiet Sunday, café after café. Note to self: Give up on cities with cobblestones that you gravitate towards, find smooth and new. Or invent new suitcase that is quiet, make millions and retire.

Next was the gentle reminder that in France, deuxieme etage actually means third floor, not second. I first took up my heavy back pack, then came back for the lighter suitcase, somehow avoiding a myocardial infarction. In the flat, I was able to find a pretty big shopping bag, which I brought down, loaded up with 1/3 of my things from the larger suitcase to bring up. Went back down (in the dark, mind you), closed up the suitcase, realized it was still too heavy, went back up the stairs, emptied the shopping bag, brought it back down, filled it again, carried the goods up, then finally got the bloody suitcase and rest of the contents up. It had been time for some cardio anyway.

Only thing left to do was bathe some of the sweat and grime off me and then head off for provisions. There's nothing like the first hour somewhere new, when you really have no clue what is going on or where you are related to all other things. The visuals are always so sharp and lasting, everything is something to look at and take in, the brain curiously processing, making mental notes for places to come back to, photographs to take, and of course getting a general lay of the land. As it turns out, my place at Rue Jaubert is incredibly well situated, in the middle of the very scenic old city, home to many churches, squares, and Lordy help me, patisseries, chocolateries and confisseries. Not exagerrating, the smell of croissants baking wafts into my apartment every morning. How long will I be able to stomach vollkornbrot for breakfast? My intentions are so very good, they really are.

The flat is great, one huge room with huge windows, two couches and a big coffee table to put all my junk on, a bedroom and kitchen that both face south, floor to ceiling windows that can be shuttered, but that I have been keeping open as much as possible. On the south side, I overlook terra cotta rooves and the appelate court, on the north a Bang and Olufsun store that is across a very narrow street. 

After the hurly burly of Bedford House and London, I was craving a little time alone to get priorities in order, but when I woke up yesterday morning, the feeling of not knowing anyone, acknowledging my pretty rusty french and no work to structure my days was unnerving, but I promised myself I'd sit with it until I either figured out what I wanted to do, or the feeling passed. I worked on several projects that I have been thinking about, but then got antsy, so took a roam around to get some groceries, walk by the Christmas fair and stop in one of the very old churches to use it as a place to get focused and relax. It worked. In the evening, I spoke to two good friends whom I love and miss and met my first person, Marianne, who looks after this apartment and was kind enough to come by to show me how to use the induction stove. She has invited me to coffee or lunch, which I'll certainly take her up on.

There is a Monoprix across the street which reminded me how surpirsingly uninspiring French grocery stores can be, and today it all made sense. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays are the big market days, with produce, flowers to almost rival Utrecht, fish, meat, cheese, nuts, olives, middle eastern, dried fruit, hats, and the ubiquitous provencal fabric, honey, lavender, olive wood sort of stuff. But there's also a daily market a block from my place that's not as big but with a very good selection, happening every morning until noon (the two markets are about a quarter mile from each other, which seems crazy). The highlight was the cheese man, who despite having an intimidatingly french bored air to him, was kind to me when I told him I wanted some cheese but didn't know which. He gave me two small chevres, one sec, the other creamy, 2€ each. I had the creamy for brunch and it was out of this world, so very goaty, and will do my best to practice restraint by saving the other until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, will be off to explore. Happy advent.