Provence

One of the reasons this area pulls me is the physical environment. There's something about the red clay and limestone earth, those Italian Stone pine trees, the aridity that feels right. So last week, I headed to Carrières de Bibemus, not even a 15-minute drive from old town's narrow alleys which while mysterious and exciting, can make life a little dark. Driving on a winding road with big houses set back behind gates with smatterings of Italian Cypress, I was reminded of a fun bike ride I'd once had with loved ones along the Apia Antica in Rome, where I had decided I wanted to retire. As if. 

The paths on this hike were wide and full of scree, starting in red clay, moving to white/grey limestone and then sometimes yellow and sometimes dirt. The sun was out, there were a few other people. I walked by a lake that looked prettier in the web photos than real life, and then a very dramatic dam, and throughout the hike, a view of Cezanne's Mt. Ste. Victoire, which he allegedly painted more than 90 times. Because it was my first time there, I didn't follow the signs to his atelier, nor to a neighboring town, but will surely be back. The hike was the skeleton of a most perfect day.

So I suppose you could say I'm getting settled, in the sense that I have learned to only buy produce for the next two days, have ascertained the difference between drying and washing my sweaters in the machine, established something like a daily routine with some level of accountability at a time when really, I have none.

It's taken a couple of weeks, but now that we've spent over an hour together, Marianne, the lady who showed me how to use the stove, takes top seat as my best friend, over the waiter who asked me what I'd like to order. I knew she was serious when she invited me to join her at Le Grillon, which is the loc place to go. There, on a Saturday morning with her Vespa helmet, dressed in leather pants, cool shoes and a crazy jacket, full hair, makeup and nails, she ran into her father, an architect, who was holding court with his cronies, and then a high school friend who was back in town from Thailand, where she currently lives. Now I'll admit that I might have done a fair amount of sitting around and waiting during her interactions, but then I'm not sure we're close enough for her to begin family introductions, right? 

In all seriousness, she has been incredibly helpful acting as a go-between for my landlord and me while also giving some great acclimation advice and being a very fun person. When she brought me to another apartment to preview, she needed to look something up on her phone and it was clear she couldn't see, but instead of fishing for the glasses I could see in her pocket, she said "oh well", which I appreciated tremendously. When we were through with the tour, she said she'd be staying at the there because she was going to be cleaning the apartment, looking posher than I would were I going to a gala, should I ever engage in such craziness as peeling off my Patagonia vest.

A few days ago, my friend from Malta who had originally suggested living in Arles arrived, and true to form, we hadn't even reached the airport parking lot when she'd already engaged someone, speaking Arabic, which she can do with ease, as she can with seven other languages. Due to her extroverted nature and career at the UN, which necessitated her living in a staggering array of war-torn countries and major European cities, she has a lot of friends. Everywhere. As I have zero friends or responsibilities here, we went straight from the airport to an apartment closer to downtown Marseille, for dinner. Of the couple, who call each other "beh-bee", with of course a french accent, my friend had met one of them in Rwanda, where he had been a doctor for the UN. His husband was a chef who, due to repetitive motion injuries, had to quit the work he loves, and is enthused about an intensive course he's attending to become a truck driver, which sounds more similar to learning how to pilot a plane than what I imagine happens in the US when one decides to drive a truck. They served us a beautiful dinner and we had many meaty conversations, switching between English and French as my brain worked hard on comprehension. It must be getting better, right? 

The doctor kindly offered to take us around Marseille another day, so yesterday we returned, to first get a ride around the beautiful parts and up a very steep hill to the Notre Dame Basilica, which overlooks the sprawling city, the harbor and the Isle d'If, the French equivalent to Alcatraz. The church was the prettiest I've seen, the ceiling and walls with much gold and other vibrant colors, very detailed illustrations. In addition, there were a number of framed paintings, on one side they were of boats, all of which had been rescued due to some miracle related to the church, and on the other side paintings of other happy outcomes. 

Afterwards, we descended through the elegant hilly neighborhoods of Marseille to the Vieux Port, enjoying a nice walk through the streets where global brands live, sigh. After Aix, which while hardly the countryside, is a little more vanilla, it was great to see a diversity of ages, backgrounds, skin colors and styles, and to feel the city's downtown vibrancy. Much of the areas where people live and work are really gritty, there's more graffiti than anywhere else I've ever seen. 

But the Vieux Port was everything an American tourista would want; boats in the harbor, cafes, sun, people watching, an Aix rosé and good conversation. We took a wander afterwards, coming upon some Christmas markets, which are in every town. These were focused more on crêches, which are big in Provence. My two friends did quite a bit of window shopping, admiring and comparing while I took it in, trying to understand why these are so prevalent. We ended our walk at the Muceum, which is one part of the serious renovations that have been done on Marseille's waterfront, with a fort on each side of the harbor, both pristine.

On another day, we had a failed attempt to have lunch with someone who lives in Annecy, about three hours away. Our plan was to meet half way in Gap, which meant driving through the beautiful Luberon and successive valleys to the foothills of Haute Alpes de Provence. It was while on this drive that I asked myself why I would ever leave Provence before the land started getting green again... Well, my friend is like me and somehow got the day wrong, or perhaps her friend did, so the two of us had lunch in a restaurant made to look like a cave and drove back home, enjoying beautiful evening light and stopping at Sisteron, a town that should definitely be in a Wes Anderson film.

So, a couple more days of meeting new people, having robust conversations and then it'll be a few days of quiet before heading back to London for Christmas. But I've taken the tentative yet slightly cheeky step of committing for an extra month here, until early March, so stay tuned. 

For those of you who have sent me notes, thank you, it has meant so much to hear from you. I'm grateful to you, friends and family whom I'm not with right now. I miss you all dreadfully, but hope to take you on my adventure at some point. Happy Christmas, Hannukah, New Years or just Friday.