Aix vs arles

Important update: That smell wafting into the living room is more prevalent in the afternoon. I've decided it's not croissants, but the gauffre shop across the street, selling monster waffles with whatever you want on them.

About that volkenbrodt.... Remember that roulette de fromage I posted a photograph of the other day? Well, I knew it wouldn't be long before it got the better of me. It wasn't the chocolates, waffles, pralines, sweet pastries, the almond callisons they sell everywhere. No, it was the cheese bomb at Cafe Weibel, unfortuantely the OG pastry shop is located less than a block from me. Deciding to be pragmatic this past summer, I read a book about how to control sugar surges and learned that one could either ingest a tablespoon of vinegar, or more appetizingly at 9 in the morning, have a vegetable and some protein first, ameliorating bad sugar effects. So, after having a salad for breakfast I headed on down and attacked that thing. Yeah, it was so very very good, served warmed, sitting outside at a table in the sun. Then almost passed out. Oh well. Think I've quelled that urge.

Last time we talked, I was going to Arles. So what happened? As the days went on, the plans of my friend, who wanted to go there didn't solidify, while mine did, and I began to be concerned about being stuck somewhere where I knew no one, in a quieter and less connected community, so pivoted at the last moment, if for no other reason, there's more going on. Committing until Pre-Christmas allows me to do some scoping and make a more informed decision about January and maybe even February. 

Now I do understand French, and have found that when reading a magazine or something like that, I can comprehend almost everything. Words also come pretty easily, perhaps not to have a debate about whether truth or loyalty is more important, but I can ask basic questions, buy stuff, generally communicate needs of the logistical sort. A problem only arises when a live person replies and all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher, wah wah wah WAH wah. Sigh. 

As part of my French immersion therapy, I've committed to doing one thing every day that I'd really rather not, usually because it's some sort of mundane thing that would take seconds and be forgettable in the US, but here is laced with complication, stress and anticipation of making a mess of it. 

So yesterday, I decided to fire up the apple car to go and check out Arles, which alone was a mental hurdle, given my last experience. When I got to the garage, there was a man in a small truck on this very narrow street, blocking the entrance. He smilingly began wah wah wahing, ending on an upbeat, so I at least knew it was a question, though had no answer. I told him that I can understand French if he speaks slowly and perhaps because my brain is still adjusting to this new language, the second time I heard waaaah, waaaah, waaaaah, WAAAAAAH? Well, I still couldn't get it, so just gave him my best smile, put my hands up in the air and walked into the wicked steep sloped garage. I noticed that the few other cars in there had parked nose out, which I tend to associate with Republicans who have tidy yards, but suspected there might be something else going on here. It took perhaps a 12-point turn, and then it was revving the engine adequately to get up the steep slope. When almost to the top, I realized it had taken long enough to get up there that the garage door had closed, so had to stop mid-wicked steep hill and re-open the garage. I'm most proud to say that I managed without incident, and was surprised that my conversational sparring partner was sitting in his car, waiting for me to come out. Perhaps he's headed in? But no, he then folllowed me out of town. I have no explanation, it will forever remain a mystery.

Toll road? Another of those little things that I wouldn't think about in the US, but here had the potential to cause a major backup to be broadcast on the 6:00 news. No problem. On to Arles it was, apple maps telling me to exit when the sign said Arles straight ahead. And I've got to tell you, not to complain anymore or anything, but not being hooked up to the car screen, it's not un-challenging to look at my phone which is set down below in the drink holder near my feet, ejected every time I turn a corner. But that's another saga for another time. I did get off the exit as told and was immediately greeted by about 8 police people in their bright green coats, one standing in the middle of the street, waving some cars over into a parking lot, one of which was mine.

One on each side of me, they asked me to open the window. Turn off the ignition. I honestly (sometimes) didn't know what he was saying, he made a gesture of turning the key and I responded. I told him I didn't speak French after understanding perfectly well that I was being accused of going 5 km over, I mean 5k at a 110 KM speed limit? I wondered if French police loved croissants as much as American police loved donuts, and silently willed him to go searching for one. He asked for something like registration, I showed him the car rental receipt on my phone. He then asked for my license, I stared blankly for a minute, he charaded driving and small card. I gave him my US ID.

Ah, Americaine! (as if this explained everything) Combien de temps restez-vous ici? 
Trois semaines, Monsieur.
Bon, profitez de vos vacances and conduire plus lentement.
Bien, merci et au revoir (although I don't ever want to re-voir him)

In Arles I saw the famous 2 km market, which is a series of vendors circling much of the old town. There were a bevvy of record and CD stalls, old shoes, junk jewelry, paintings of questionable merit, war memorabilia, African masks, kids games, hardware, clothing separates, household cleaning fluids and at the end, both produce and some delicious looking Moroccan and other prepared food. I like going to markets because it gives me a good idea of who lives in that town, and from what I gathered, there are a lot of transplants from North Africa in Arles. Even coming from Boston, which represents itself with black clothes pretty aggressively in winter, I was struck by the lack of color on people.

The old town is pretty in a faded, seen better days but still has beautiful bones kind of way. Situated right on the Rhone, which was a greeny brown, choppy and very unappealing, there was a wind whipping through the downtown that made it inhospitable. I did my best to take photographs and be open-minded about it being a different kind of nice, but found myself haunted by the tinned Christmas carols coming out of speakers somewhere close to an abandoned square, save the staffed 6 Christmas markets with no customers. I'm not sure if Van Gogh was living in Arles when he cut off his ear, but I was starting to understand. Parking paid till 14:00, be damned.

A British landscape architect who works in France and is married to an artist who lives in Italy told me to check out Tarascon, Ste. Remy and Ste. Etienne, so I looped back via the first two, missing the third. They were pretty, but left me thinking about the connection of the English word desolation and the French, desolée. Maybe it's a winter thing.

Since I arrived in Aix, I have been in the habit of taking an hour or so walk at the end of the day just before the sun goes down. But yesterday I spent more time, wandering up the Cours Mirabeau, the main drag downtown, full of families revving up for Christmas with long lines at all the kiddie rides. While I had no interest in buying spiced bread, imitation gold earrings or please help me, sachets of lavender, I knew that I'd rather be here among a jolly crew of people, even if I didn't know them. I was ready to commit to stay here for the next month or two, which felt right. Ready to receive visitors after 4th January!

Finally, I'll leave you with a word of advice. Don't mix writing and cooking.