Taking a break in Cassis, photo credit Erica Curtis

I suppose a sign that I'm settling down is that posts will start to be about life, rather than adjusting to a new place or visiting new places, though the latter will not cease any time soon,  There have been little trips, but no yelling animals and only one rental car mishap to report. Life is settled,  and I've been lucky enough to be distracted by all kinds of socializing, which has been great.

Back in January, I held my first dinner party that was made up of people who I knew, had only met and in one instance, someone I had never met. We sat around my big table and talked until late in the evening. I had the opportunity to sit next to a young Tunisian woman who told me that the person who cooks is not allowed to clean up, which I confess to thinking is nice and I will endeavor to keep to it when I'm dining at someone's house. In what I understand is true Tunisian fashion, when she arrived, she literally rolled up her sleeves and said "OK, put me to work", not in that way that I confess I have said when half of me is offering to help in some minor way and half is just being polite.  Although I had forgotten the advice I've given to myself recently to cook less when entertaining, all parts of it were great fun, from buying everything at the market, cooking for a crew, having them in my house and enjoying the conversation. I felt so lucky to have already met such nice people.

Faux Frenchies

Erica of hollow legs is not uninterested in food, so we spent some time at the markets, cooking and generally observing all the good shops that support her interest. She joined me in my survey of the best pain au chocolat, no conclusions reached yet, but I can certainly point you in some meaningful directions.  We did some hiking in the hills nearby and one day rented a car to visit Cassis. It happened to be market day, and cheeky, I took the bait when the cheese vendor asked me if I'd like to try his flight of cheeses. Of course he starts with the least flavorful (and least expensive) and works his way up to truffle infused, I liked the third and while not in the market for any cheese on a day we were going to go to Les Calanques, got sucked in. I talked him down from the the full piece he suggested (see below), but apparently not that much as he told me I owed him 17€. When I complained about the price to Erica, she pointed out the 6 foot sign that announced his and the cheeses Corsican origin. I suppose someone has to pay for his Mediterranean crossing.

​Les Calanques are inlets between Marseille and Cassis, both on the coast, that are bright blue water, a color that doesn't seem natural, way down below high cliffs. It's possible to begin walking them just outside of Cassis, so we took a little gander on a blowy and grey day.

Idiocy

And then it was my shaggy girl I was meeting at 11pm on a dark street outside the center of the city, things hanging off her backpack, hair going here and there, stickers on her hands, which were holding a blood orange, and merriment in her voice. It hadn't been that long but oh how delicious it was to lie in our beds (ok, for her it was a couch) and have a chat before going to sleep. This may sound biased but I really do have the best daughter.

After Christmas/New Years, all the shops here, and there are many, have sales, with signs saying SOLDE in the windows and pretty displays. But this past weekend, it was a town wide Braderie, which is a whole different thing, with each store emptying out most of their old content and putting it on the sidewalk, prices reduced dramatically. So while neither Nat nor I are shoppers, we dove in and did a lot of hanger moving and tilting heads to the side trying to make a go of something or other. It was only after a few hours that we realized these were not the kind of shops we would ever find anything. Oh well. In the end, Nat got a few things at the regular market and I a belt at a Vintage store.

We spent one night in Marseille at a hotel that had been newly built a bit outside of the well travelled routes, but lucky for us, overlooking the working harbor where all the big ships were. On Sunday morning, I woke up and stood at the window for an hour watching the ship from Corsica come in, as well as two of those monster floating apartments that are called cruise ships, then countless fishing boats. This led me to think about taking the ferry to Corsica or Tunis, but turns out it's over 300€ one way!

Marseille has many North Africans, and we found ourself at a Tunisian restaurant around sundown during Ramadan, lucky to get a table as we saw others turned away.

​Always hard to say goodbye to this one, but I'll see her soon.

Greetings. 


When I started this blog, having a site on Wix was close to free. Then once I started getting more readers, I had to pay for the emails I sent out with each post, now Wix is asking me to pay to load any more photos. So I've decided enough is enough and am switching to Weebly, a "transfer is in progress". I have no idea what that means and am woefully un-gifted with managing things like this, having no idea what will happen. In an ideal world, once this transfer is made, I'll be able to send out another post from Wix telling you to re-sign up on the new site, but honestly, I have no clue and have waited to get motivated to figure it out and honestly don't think it's going to happen.


So, know that all is well, it's 65 and sunny today, the cafes are packed, the shorts are out and this gentle life in Aix continues to inspire, entertain and delight me. OK, a few stories, I can't resist. But no pics, sadly.


For the last six or nine months, I have been noticing dogs in a way that I hadn't before, almost like I could relate to them like I could a person. This past week, I was having a hike up to the Tour Cesar, having written about it previously. On my way up, I passed a couple coming down who despite not speaking to each other, were not able to reply to my "bonjour". Walking in front of them was a Dalmatian, off leash. 


On the way down, about half an hour later, I saw two older women with poles struggling up the hill with a Dalmation off leash and thought it an odd coincidence to see two within an hour or so. The dog came running up to me, sat down in front of me and started howling in a most soulful way, looking right at me and making me feel as though I was in a Disney movie that had talking animals trying to save us from danger. I said "bonjour", having an internal giggle about dogs speaking better French than me, and began to pet him, which calmed him down. When the women approached, they asked me if he was my dog, saying he was not theirs. I told them no and made movements to begin heading down the hill, then remembering that one of the things I liked about here is that people are more likely to care for others, so slapped down my American inclination to think only of myself and hung in there, the dog once in a while walking away to sniff something, but always coming back to me, looking me in the eye and yowling. I'd pet him again, calm him down while I deliberated with the women, and then the routine would be repeated.


We found a phone number on his collar, they called the number, left a message, then we waited a few minutes, no reply. So, we decided they would continue up and I would continue down, assuming one of us would find the wordless couple who owned the dog. Well, the dog chose me and as I descended, would run ahead, doing his sniffing and peeing thing, then loop back to check on me and give me what felt like a somewhat yowl as I hadn't yet understood. This continued for about 15 minutes as the walk switched from woods to woody suburban houses with big walls. At one point the dog went far ahead and I felt sure that he'd gone home and all was solved, but then right when I got to a fork where I was to go left, he came back, and not quietly, to let me know he had not found his home and I was still on duty. I stood there for a minute or two as he continued on in the direction I wasn't going to go. With the knowledge I looked like a cray person, I snuck down the other way, hustling through the brush for a few minutes.


I was hurrying down this rubbly and overgrown path that was pretty steep, and from behind me, I heard the dog, tearing to catch up with me and yes, yowl. He then went ahead of me. I knew that as I continued to descend, I'd be going past another gated big house, a farm and then some smaller houses at which point I'd be on a not much used road that eventually led to a much more used road with a school, apartments buildings and bus stops where the dog would no longer be safe. Not knowing what the heck to do and not wanting to take off my shirt, I looked around the bushes to see if there was something I could use as a leash, thinking I'd bring him back to my apartment and then call someone. But there really was nothing. Then at the field, I saw a man getting on a tractor and had started to walk towards him, in the hope he'd know this dog and know what to do, or at the very least give me a piece of rope. On the way I ran into a woman who had a tiny dog who she lifted up when what had become "my"dog pounced towards them. She started to give me the evil eye, perhaps wondering why I wasn't keeping this hound under control, but was sympathetic when I explained the situation. In the end, she kindly ended up taking the dog back to her house, but with enough yowling and pleading looks that I was reminded of leaving my little girl at pre-school on that first day. 


Walkiing back to my apartment, I kept wondering what was going on and why was the dog making that sound when he otherwise seemed to be rather content. Could.he be trying to tell me something? Why me? Why not the other people? It will remain a mystery.


The next day, the ginger cat I'd seen once before in the hallway started a similar insistent yowling at me. I politely said "bonjour" and continued on my way down the stairs with concern about whether I should endeavour to keep it from escaping outside. But when I got near the exterior door, it lost interest. I came back a while later, the cat was there again, yowling again at me. Frustrated, I switched to English and said "What do you want from me???" and continued past it up the steps to my apartment. On the doormat was a big, nasty cat poop, really not my favorite thing. It looked at me, I looked at it, I went inside and closed the door.


A few hours later, I was sittiing on the couch writing, it was about 6 pm, and someone tried to open my front door, repeatedly. I was a little in shock, knowing that the only people who had keys would never do so without checking with me, so sat for a minute to think, but they continued to jiggle, freaking me out a bit as I could see the door handle moving. Eventually I decided to say something, but there was no reply. A few minutes later, I tried again, no reply, so I opened the door. And there was that cat. It looked at me, I looked at it, told it to get lost, and that was the end of that.


And this all after a night when someone was played a trumpet near my window when he or she should have been sleeping. Crazy times.

Hardworking steps

Usually, it's pretty easy to pick the first photograph, representative of the post, but after spending a few days wandering around Marseille, I'm finding it a hard city to define as it appears to have so many different personalities, and extremes. Which makes it all the more interesting to visit.
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Steps up to Gare St. Charles, which is modern inside and attached to the bus station. All very civilized.

On my first visit, I was vaguely headed towards the sun and sea, which in my mind, meant walking downhill. The station environs were like so many; Turkish kebab takeout and lots of men smoking. But shortly after that was Cours Julien which is known for its nightlife, but being an old person, I was there in the morning. It's a quiet street with cafes and clubs on one side, stores on the other, festooned with graffiti, which is pretty much a constant in Marseille. It seemed shocking in the same way Venice Beach was that first time, especially in comparison to Santa Monica. But as you settle in, it's possible to take the place as it is without judgement, to begin to understand the context. While at first all the graffiti felt like people yelling, trying to get my attention, it became more like the voice of a shared community. Even in the nicer neighborhoods, it was there, next to the plant filled streets with tourist shops selling soap and t-shirts.
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Fish market, Noailles

Eventually I found the harbor and sat myself down to the most perfectly situated and highly touristic restaurant I could find, treating myself to a grilled dorade with ratatouille and potatoes in olive oil, outside in a T shirt, watching the world go by. Next to me was a table for four, and twice, it was filled by 20-something French boys, such an unlikely place for them to dine on a Monday. But dine they did, the second lot deliberating for a very long time about their meals, going back and forth and both supporting decisions of their friends as well as adivising them to go in different directions. It was dear how serious they were. Later on in the week, I was to see this happen twice more, taking 5-10 minutes of the waiter's time, asking such specific questions at restaurants that one wouldn't think merited that much thought. 

After getting the feeling of sun on my face, I wanted more and headed for the Corniche, which is Marseille's version of a boardwalk. I took an illogical but absurdly delightful route that went around and over a hill where all the nice houses are, zig zagging through tiny, steep streets with few people, but breathtaking light, a quiet and not a leaf out of place. There were nice surprises around every corner.
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Guard cat in the posh hood

And then, there it was, that beautiful sea, almost blindingly bright it was so sparkly. I'd guess it went up to 70 degrees resulting in many young people sunning on the rocks in bathing suits and more than a few in the water despite it being a Monday early afternoon when I would have thought there was work to do. But then, who am I to talk?
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Pretty old boats and reflections, Vieux Port ​

There was a row of yachts with descriptors that included the year they were built. This was one of the older ones, it was interesting to see how design had changed over the years. ​

That's me on the right, in the non-kidney bean reflection

Sometimes, when expectations are low and attitudes are flexible and open and the overall mood is right, it's possible to have a perfect day. 

Entrance to the house in Carpentras

Last May when Nat and I were in Carpentras for a wedding, we booked an airbnb at an old farmhouse. The owners were a couple in their seventies who, despite our arrival at 2am or so, were out at the corner of the driveway (shown in the video above) with flashlights, showing us the way in. Their cheerful kindness (he also helped me turn the ignition of the rental car off) continued throughout our stay and once back in Boston, I emailed Claudette to ask if she had any advice about my thought of spending some of the winter in the South of France. To say that she was helpful is to simplify the many emails filled with suggestions, contacts, ideas, and most welcomed, enthusiasm and warmth that were embedded in every communication. Without her encouragement, I may not have made the trip, and it was she who originally recommended Aix-en-Provence.
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Claudette and Jacques' house last May

This past weekend, I was invited to visit with them and meet Claudette's sister, who lives in Paris and hadn't been there for five years. At first I told Claudette I'd come for the day as they'd likely want to spend time together without me, and because I didn't know how long the peanut brain would last speaking French, particularly with people I didn't know so well, but she told me it was good that I'd be there, and that her sister spoke good English, so overnight it was going to be.

Being a pedestrian, renting a car has become an opportunity to see another new place to which I might not otherwise have access. As it was an unusually rainy Saturday, I decided to stop along the way in Avignon, choosing the Palais des Papes, an earlier version of the Vatican. I'll be honest, it was mostly chosen for its large indoor space and proximity to an underground parking lot. But when I saw that looming, stone building, I got a flashback to Salisbury Cathedral with June and Carin, and the chill that stayed in my bones for many a day. So instead, chose what was perhaps a worse course, making wrong turns in the rain with the map open to the Collection Lambert, which was advertised as a contemporary art gallery with works by Picasso, Ellsworth Kelly and Sol LeWitt among others. 

Instagrammable exhibits can annoy me, but this was pretty fun

The gallery holding the collection was unfortunately closed, so I wandered around a very nicely renovated old empire building taking in exhibits about wind. This took all of 25 minutes, leading me to a restaurant on the other side of the courtyard for a lunch of dorade, which seems to be the chicken of Provence, and very good aubergine. I was seated in a small room with three other tables, all occupied. Directly ahead was a mother-in-law who was less refined than you might expect at a museum restaurant, who drank three glasses of white wine within the time I was there and didn't draw breath, sitting next to her daughter-in-law, who was tidy, compact and had a very large engagement ring. The mother-in-law directed all conversation, which she was generating, to her son, who was sitting across from her. The daughter-in-law, whose eye caught mine a few times, seemed to be quietly apologizing while asking whether I knew her pain. The older woman actually did remind me significantly of someone I once knew, so I smiled, but then opened up my phone, which I didn't really want to do, to not appear eavesdropping, or actually joining in the conversation as the table was so close.

I'll admit, I was nervous about showing up at this house of people I didn't know, yet had commited to. I remembered Claudette as chatty, her English about as good as my French, and Jacques quieter but not unfriendly. When I opened the door, it was into their dining room, the three of them along with a family friend named Nathalie who lives in Marseille, sitting at the table after a recently fininshed lunch. I had a feeling of both barging in and being way too much the center of atttention, with everyone jumping up and wanting to make and give me things, as though they had been waiting for me. One of my goals at the moment is to worry less about these sorts of things, rather to be vaguely thoughtful and polite and then let people do what they do, which proved to be the right path in this instance. 
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Dining room table . How about those 11/2 foot thick walls?

Flashing back to our first trip to the Netherlands, we arrived in the most picturesque town of Utrecht at about noon after an overnight flight. While Nat chose to sleep, Philip and I were excited to be there and went for lunch outside on the canal. We were tired, yes, and conversation came slowly. I was struck by our gold booted neighbor who spoke with his friend for the two hours we were there. They never stopped and had so many back and forths in a gentle and easy kind of way. Since then I've noticed how common that is in most European countries to have these long ranging conversations, and less so in the US. It's certainly not my strength as I usually have this bullying feeling that there's something I should be doing that I'm behind on. 
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I may not be able to to find my house keys today, but I can find a photo from 2017. Gold toes and friend who chatted for hours in Utrecht.

So on Saturday in Carpentras, I sat down with Claudette, Jacques, Marie-Hélène and Nathalie around 3 pm and while we moved from dining room to living room and back to dining room, essentially we didn't get up or stop talking until about 10pm. They were all so very lovely and made me feel welcome. We talked about a wide array of things, helping to at least temporarily vanquish any prior inadequacy about being conversationally illiterate. It is painfully hard to talk about things that are complicated, using the pitiful amount of French I have, but somehow we muddled through; they were patient with my slowness and fumbling, and once in a while Marie-Hélène, whose English was stronger, would help out, or even switch to English for a few minutes. But by the night time, I really couldn't understand, or say, anything, and felt bad asking them to repeat and repeat, so crawled off to a comfy bed in a dark room, head spinning but happy.

The weather was to be better on Sunday and I thought of having breakfast with these kind folks and taking my leave to explore some of the region. But when Marie-Hélène, who is head of a university of international architecture in Paris, asked if I'd like to go to the  Inguimbertine, I said oui, and off she, Jacques and I went to this combination library and museum that had recently been renovated, the design having being done by a friend of hers. The old library was closed, but we had a look around and then had a wander at a high quality Provencal junk market/broconte (new word), to which I will surely go back when I have needs. We finished with a coffee at a confisserie that sells some kind of fruitish candy for which the area is famous. ​
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Jacques, with Marie-Hélène and me in the reflection at the confisserie

Back to the house we went and I said OK, time to go and Claudette said stay for lunch, and so I did, a fine one with good French cheese and baguette and a salad of mache grown around the corner, jarred artichoke hearts, avocado and tomato, a combination I will surely replicate. After that, I was off with hugs and gratitude and such good feeling for these wonderful people who had offered me their lives, food and home, a promise to stay in touch, to return.

The evening prior, we had enjoyed a Muscat from Beaumes-des-Venise, so I decided to do a quick leg stretch zipping over there for a 3K loop before getting home for a 6pm call. There were many nice things to see, definitely on the list for a return trip.
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Airing laundry made me think about how the expression came about. It does seem ulnerable somehow to put ones sheets out. Beaumes-de-Venise

Zip zip zip in the car back to Aix, arriving at the rental garage at 5:30 with enough time to get back home for my call. Office closed, garage door open, down I go, but by the time I walk out, the garage door has closed and doesn't respond to the pushed button. I run around, looking for another way out. One red door, I take it, go up some stairs, find myself on a roof surrounded by walls and buildings with no exit. Door back to garage is locked, I'm stuck on the roof. 

The birds have begun squawking which I know means darkness is coming soon. Around and around I go, looking for an out. I climb some exterior stairs, try the doors to a building that faces the street on the other side, all locked. I climb a wall, 20 foot drop on the other side. I crawl through a fence, follow the path, it leads to a wall. There's one window that's lit, I yell hello, bonjour. Nada. I try calling the rental car emergency number and the line goes dead at two attempts, don't want to use up the 30% of battery I have left. 

After 20 minutes, I decide to call the police because I really don't want to spend the night on damp pebbles in my only coat, a rain shell, temperature predicted to be 32F. And in a charming and most inimitable fashion, the police man tells me that I'm in a pickle and he's not sure what to do, but will call me back, sounding rather too casual and amused for my liking. I again circle the perimeter, it's dark now, find a 6 inch wide opening, but it's onto a construction site that is a hole one storey below my level. There's a 9 inch ledge on one side of it attached to a building wall, leading to a wire fence that looks potentially bendable.

Seeming like my only option but pretty scared of the ledge above the hole one storey down, I decide to leave my belongings on the roof as their weight would destabilize me, and they won't fit through the gap unless I took each thing out and moved it through the gap one at a time. I push my body really hard through the opening, happy to have cut out sugar yet still getting pre-bruises on my ribs and hips, then climb up through stone and wet sand to the dangerous ledge, gingerly balancing on it with my stomach touching the wall with hands raised above, moving slowly one foot then the other like you see in movies when the person who was going to commit suicide decides not to. No looking down. After what felt like an eternity, I get to the potentially bendable fence. Nope. But there's no way I'm turning around and doing that scary ledge again. Brute force becomes my friend and I squeeze through an even smaller space than the first, carefully balancing my weight so I don't fall backwards into the pit. A family of four happen to be walking down the sidewalk on the "free" side and stop, fascinated, to watch, interestingly not offering to help nor congratulating me when I finally push through, ripped jeans and jacket. But I'm out and call the police to let them know.
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My small circle of hell

​I've never been so grateful to be sitting in a warm apartment with a bed, the ordeal having to accept that I might have to spend the night there still on repeat in my head. This morning I went back to drop off the keys and retrieve my stuff and when I told the person working there the story, they didn't seem at all surprised or concerned and offered no alternatives should it happen again. There's something about that response that helps me to reset.

It all made me wonder when the last time was that I'd felt any physical peril. Many many moons ago. Sorry to miss you, friends. 

When my family lived in France, there was a mimosa tree growing outside our bathroom window. Smelling the flowers again brought back such a vivid image. 


In the morning, it can still be cold, not that I'm ever out at that hour because it still doesn't get light until around 8, but there's a way that the air is starting to feel lighter, and when I venture over to Cortésine Park, there are smells of things starting to happen under the earth. Today I said hello to little daisies growing in the grass, along with the tiniest of periwinkle flowers. In the afternoon, no matter what the weather app says (cloudy, sometimes rain), it's sunny, pushing me out the door to La Mado for a café, where I'll sometimes write on my phone instead of laptop. No laptop lurkers here, instead talking.

They can't all be flattering. Me at my post.


Early on in my stay here, I wasn't ready to commit to the place I was staying for longer than February 5th, but soon after was, by which time it had been rented out for a few nights here and there. I deliberated for 10 minutes about the drag of packing all my things up a few times versus the drag of losing this location, and decided being a nomad wasn't so bad. Plus the lady who handles all the airbnb business, my first friend here, has been flexible about letting me leave things in secondary closets. So, it was off to "the Americans'", or the devil's valise, as my friend who also stayed there called it, as she got sick and I couldn't sleep, which is unusual. It's only a 10 minute walk, but just outside the city center, and while it has many mod cons that Jaubert doesn't have, being inside it is well, American, and makes breathing a little harder for me. 

US of A


But at this point, it doesn't matter so much where I am for a few days. I know the lay of the land, have enough to do, and have started to be plugged in. Or is it plugged in? Within the last few weeks, I went all-in on the social opportunities, telling myself that I'd trying anything once. So, it's been a blur of things, one of which was a trip to Marseille to a Sicilian restaurant down a very narrow alley in an old, quiet and leafy residential neighborhood. It was situated in a built out garage that adjoined the two-storey house of the restaurant owner, and was full on a Wednesday at lunch. There is a store selling Italian produce in the back. It was a very good meal, curated by the kind Milanese woman who gave me a ride both ways, who provided context for why we were eating and drinking what we were. With the exception of one person who I had spoken to the week prior for about 20 minutes, they were all strangers, and I was the only native English speaker, though the intention of this monthly international luncheon is for English to be the lingua franca. 

Sicilian lunch in the garage. Syria, US, Mexico, Italy, Syria, Cassis via Singapore, Paris and Thailand.


After the Franglish meet-up group last Saturday from 5-7pm, someone suggested going out to dinner, so about 12 of us marched off to a sushi restaurant nearby, and I sat next to a French engineer about my age who works at the unviersity and a French younger guy who looked like he spends a lot of time at the gym and works in cybercrime and AI. It was a lot of fun and a beautifully random group of people of both genders, wide variety of ages and nationalities. There were other nice meetings this week as well, inside, outside, lunch, morning coffee, afternoon apero, I was starting to see how this socializing could become life!


Last night I wasn't really feeling it, but pushed myself to go to the Franglish, after all what else was I going to do on a Saturday night? I slumped into my seat rather than my usual skip. As more people showed up, I became the only woman of about 12, staring at a sea of French and American men, all about my age. Something inside of me shut down. I tried to fake it for a while, but couldn't figure my way out, I had hit a socializing wall. After an hour, I excused myself and dragged my tired ass home.


It's a funny thing. The opportunity to tap into so many different nationalities has been one of the greatest priviledges of being here, I have loved it. But I realized that the combination of French not being my first language and all these people being new, necessitated me having the same introductory conversation over and over and over and over. Boston, digital nomad, chasseur de tête, Amsterdam weather, wedding in Carpentras, lived in Cassis as a young child, Centreville, 2 months, May. Of course, this is the natural start of any relationship and one that is meaningful will progress beyond, but with a few very nice exceptions, that's where these relationships are right now. And last night, I could't do it again.


On my way home, I began to wonder about the phenomenon of uprooting every few years. Most of the ladies at the Sicilian restaurant had moved from country to country, many times, with kids, for their husband's work. What is it like every time you pick up and go, leaving friends behind, starting all over? Does it affect the way you make friends? What you do? How involved you get? Do they, like me, get "just done"? This may be just me, but it would be particularly hard to be the one in the relationship who is always reacting to the life changes of the other, though I would imagine decisions are made together. 


So, I came home that night and did some cooking, then started yet another book I'd have never chosen, but is in English and here at my place, The Ghost Writer by Philip Roth. Got some things scheduled this week but dialing it back a bit. French haircut. stay tuned!

There's a story here, I've forgotten what it is. At some point, I'm going to do a tour of all the doors of Aix, and will report back then.


Miss you all!

My street at 9 pm, never empty during the day. Behind me is Cafe Weibel, the best pastry shop and cafe, a few steps beyond, the plaza where the smaller daily market is held. The red light ahead on the right is Monoprix, my local supermarket where I sometimes go in my slippers, and a few doors beyond at the lit up door on the right is my shabby but most perfect apartmentt. I wish I had the words to describe how ideal my situation is..


There are a whole bunch of reasons why being in Aix this winter makes sense, one of which is a life polar plunge to untangle the patterns, habits, ways of thinking, shampoo brands that have evolved to make life thus far. Here's an example: There doesn't appear to be such a thing as stain remover here, but it turns out putting concentrated detergent on the stain serves the same purpose. Life has recently been rushing by shockingly quickly, which makes me want to make sure I'm on the right side of the line between contentment and somnolence. And what better way to do it than disengage from current routines that make it easy to not stop and think?


There's a tall and funny person I know, who was at one point shorter but just as funny, whom I'd venture to say is more centered and present than perhaps anyone I've met. Years ago, we went trail running together a few times, and this person tended to fall behind. So I'd wait by jogging in place to keep warm until she'd caught up, only instead of moving forward with me, she'd sit down in the path, likely not seeing the point of rushing through nature the way we were. Or, maybe she had no interest. The point being that I remember a feeling of wanting to get moving so the run could be checked off the Saturday To Do list, knowing a better path would have been to enjoy the reward sitting right there. 


This thought leads me to the symbolism benches have always held, and my jealousy of people who can sit on them for the sake of pure enjoyment. I might be walking to Boston, or on the High Line, down in Falmouth, next to the Thames, any number of scenic places. I might even be really tired with feet that hurt. Benches I see seem to stare back at me, challenging me to sit the @#$% down and just *&(*& relax. At some level I'd want to, but never quite could. Too much to do, too many places to see.*

Almost


So, an important part of this Provencal junket, has been creating an opportunity to learn how to sit on life's bench, as well as perhaps a literal one. I have been embarassed by my frustration in crowded alleys here, when people are walking three or four abreast, sauntering and chatting, making it hard to barge past. Why am I in such a hurry? It's not as though I have anywhere to be.


Resetting has a timeline of it's own and is not to be rushed, haha. But the other morning, I found myself watching dust in a sun ray for some amount of time, and when I snapped out of it, realized I had reached a threshhold not previously accessible. It helps that life here is more focused on the present. There's a serious after work apero crowd, no matter what the temperature, and there's a gentleness and contentment in faces and actions of adults leaving work and kids getting out of school that seems more human than the impatient rush hours I remember, and the poor young (mostly) boys I used to see, busting out of classrooms where they'd been stuck all day, desperate to let off some steam.


So, there's been some amount of spacing out with the goal of no goal, learning to follow whims. One morning, I was lying on the couch, profoundly dreading writing, having a strong urge to get outside and go for a walk, so I let myself. There was no plan, I simply followed my nose. Instead of going into town, I went the other way, up the hill, which led to multiple decisions about whether to turn back or continue on, choosing the latter for quite a while, eventually leading me up a steep hill with hairpin turns that reminded me of Pacific Palisades, with big, beautiful houses and lush gardens. After climbing further, the very narrow road turned into a dirt path, where there were long views over the valley and to the hills beyond. It was morning, quiet, only birds singing, the air was very clean and gentle on my skin. Straight ahead there was a clearing around a limestone tower that looks like an ancient structure. To my confusion, surprise and delight, on the left of the tower were a group of old people (oh gosh, they were my age) doing yoga with hiking poles. I giggled.

The light here is so calming


As well as spending time staring at dust and blowing off productive inentions, I've managed to create some structure where there was none, making a concerted effort to expand in various ways. I joined a gym that is rife with French men and ripe with French man BO, but everyone's very friendly, it has all the equipment I need and is a five minute walk from home. There have been multiple coffees, lunch, drinks, dinner and a Franglish Meet Up, chatting with people from Cyprus, Germany, the Netherlands, Australia, the Ukraine, Spain, Italy, Hong Kong, a few Americans and yes, some French people too! It's such a welcoming community, and the expats and Aixoise are skilled at socializing and welcoming newbies. Biggest accomplishment? I'm writing. Slowly, awkwardly, sometimes painfully, but I'm writing, beginning a project which may turn into something, may not, but it's releasing a story that has been inside me for a while, so that's all good.


French is creeping along sloooowly. My eavesdropping skills are definitely improving, perhaps thanks to nightly watching of Dix Pourcent (Call My Agent) in French at 3/4 speed with subtitles, sometimes with Google Translate open, sometimes not. Market navigation is also much improved, though these kind and friendly folks have a bit of English and somehow know that I'm not a native speaker! One day...


It's not all productive. Or maybe it is? Doing research on something, I ended up down a rabbit hole that led me to Irish Travelers, about whom I'd known little. The result was some incredibly engaging  youtubes about their wedding rituals, which sucked me in something fierce.


Cleveland Circle Reservoir? Bring on the benches, I'm ready for you. But not till May.....


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*A side note that has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm writing about today but is about a bench. I once knew a guy who grew up and lived in Stockbridge. He had a busy life, but every Thursday after work in the summer, he'd sit on a certain bench on the main street in Stockbridge for a couple of hours, where friends, relatives and neighbors knew to find him. He'd hold court, just sit and watch, or chat with strangers.

Katharine and I in Cassis

Not long after the woolly mammoth roamed the earth, I had a job that had me doing a lot of interview screening. In the summer when most of my colleagues were at Tanglewood, I tended to relax my already low standards. For this particular interview, I turned my empty office trash can upside down and put my flip flopped feet up on it before beginning a chat with a tall blonde who had applied for an Executive Assistant opening. She had good experience, was clearly smart, way more professional than I, and ended up getting the job. Not long after, she admired my new black suede shoes, advising me to buy waterproofing spray, which I never did. Now, she'd know not to waste her breath on that kind of advice, knowing me as she does. But in my mind, that conversation was the beginning of a friendship we've nurtured over years and years, our friendship continuing to deepen with every important life event we share. Somehow we morphed from single girls looking for trouble to those people who need help putting their carry-ons in the overhead compartment. She has always been thoughtful, funny, creative, sure of who she is, and spontaneously generous, more than anyone I know. And she is so very dear to me.

​But she's not the first person I expected to come and visit, as she tends to be pulled in different directions at home. So when she walked through the doors at Marignane, two worlds collided in a confusing and most delightful way. For the week we had together, we could have done nothing but sit at cafés, which we certainly did for a few days. But I got a bee in my bonnet about her seeing the Mediterranean, so we hurtled off to Cassis, where my family had spent some years when I was young. It was a sunny, warm day that allowed us to sit at one of the harbor cafes for hours, jacketless, enjoying the most killer fish-related meals. I'm not sure if I was 4, 5 or 6 when my family left there, but I usually have a good memory for places based on the way the land lies. I spent a bit of time looking up in the hills, trying to envision the view I know we had from our house, and certainly narrowed down where we lived. But I'll have to go back alone for another session to get clearer. It's little changed, still cafés the whole way around, perhaps some of the same Tabac denizens even. Little painted boats still in the harbor, the much used petanque park, the carousel, oleander bushes. 

Sadly closed, it might have been New Years Day


And then we were off to Paris for a few nights. On the advice of my wonderful Maltese friend, we stayed in Saint Germain at the Hotel St. Germain. As our very nice Uber driver brought us in via all the big landmarks, I began to worry we'd be close to the Louis Vuitton store that is designed as a suitcase, along with all their uninteresting global brand competition on Avenue Champs-Elysees. But he dropped us on Rue du Bac across from a shop selling only socks and near a hardware store more beautiful than any I've before seen. There was also a colorful grocery store that had polar bears dancing in the windows, quite a few chocolate shops that are always crowded, a dear little place that sells flowers, and then further afield, stores selling Louis XVI furniture, chandeliers, art deco pieces, fossils, mounted dead bugs, things made from airplane parts, remade sneakers, and oddly, many stores that had stuffed deer or moose ior sale or as decorations. Every store was more beautifully arranged than the next. Lotta photographs, did my best to winnow them down. 

My friend sadly took ill, but it didn't stop her much, she was out and about with me for a much of the time. We stood outside Notre Dame, along with a few kajillion others, but didn't go closer because the military were standing there with their scary looking automatic weapons alarmingly close, pointing into the crowd, with safeties off. 

No Red Bull or Budweiser trash in this town! 


And so it was tally-ho to my friend whom I will see in the spring, but her presence remains.

Birthday girl, so beautiful

A few days ago, my friend asked me if I’m more energized by being alone or with others, a discussion her family had over Christmas. I thought back to the last time I’d learned results from Meyers Briggs, the dot sitting exactly between the E(extrovert) and I(introvert), which seemed right. I couldn’t live without people around me, being with them gives me great energy and joy. But it’s only in solitude that I can access clarity and purpose, not to mention, writing. My reason for being MIA.

Only a month ago, I was dealing with the challenge of being in Aix alone and knowing no one. And while it was uncomfortable, I was starting to see a path forward and steps I could take. Since then, it's been Christmas and there have been many most welcome distractions in the form of friends and family, good reminders to enjoy the vistas on the path while also plotting it. Sometimes we get exactly what we need. 

Nat and I both arrived back in London the day prior to my dear aunt’s birthday, and were able to celebrate at the most welcoming Tony and Brita’s house, where we sat by a Christmas tree with lit candles and Tony dished out a feast of monkfish with olives, potatoes and tomatoes while our end brought up the rear with a NY Times lemon cake made with eyeballed quantities due to measuring equipment apparently unavailable. Not bad considering. Tony mentioned Marmite Mike would be joining us, whom I excitedly imagined as a tall man covered with brown I could lick; sticky face, slicked backed hair, shiny eyebrows. I asked Tony several times why that was his name. At first he didn’t reply, perhaps thinking I was making a bad joke, but eventually he patiently explained, in his most perfect accent, that he was saying “My mate, Mike”. Oh gahd… 

Brita and her German Christmas tree

We sadly missed the carol service I’d bought tickets for at St. Bartholomew’s Church, as there are apparently more than one in England, I having booked for Huddersfield, closer to the Scottish border than to Chiswick. But we managed to bust into a kids service where each of us were given a fresh orange with four toothpicks sticking out horizontally and equidistantly,  each covered with a large marshmallow. On top of the orange was a hole, a piece of foil with a white candle jabbed in. The four-year old we were with, rather than singing along to Silent Night, made quick and stealthy work of all 20 marshmallows, satisfied and seemingly no worse for the wear.

Despite being only seven of us, Christmas was a boisterous affair, thanks to my two handsome and dear second cousins who brought a sackful of jollyness and superior cooking skills, resulting in many laughs and a table laden with all manner of things. My aunt was Mother Christmas, producing stockings unlike any Nat had received from her American Santa. Gasps and laughs prevailed. We were joined for dinner by a professional trumpeter who led us in many songs, including at the request of one of the lads, God Save The Queen (or is it King now?) which he apparently sung so out of tune, he was told to stop as it was disrespectful.

Our Accompanist

We were invited to lunch at the Beehive Cottage in Barnes, which, if you read Beatrix Potter books, you'd associate with one of the little houses the animals live in. It's perhaps 10 feet wide and has three floors, crammed with all the best finds that passed through this retired antique dealer's hands, displayed in every corner, wall, shelf and table. It was incredibly pretty, but as someone who doesn't really know how to deal with knick knacks, made me feel like, well, a bull in a china shop, which is exactly what I was.

London Sunny

​In an earnest effort to absorb the local culture, Nat and I doubled down on pubs. I had walked by the Blue Anchor many times, but usually in the morning, later ending up at either The Dove or The George and Devonshire,  a hop, skip and a jump from HQ. But we made it back at night, and the Blue Anchor proved a new favorite, with a cozy interior, nice bartender and good mix of people. The pub itself has been alive longer than the US of A, but then so have quite a lot of things. The Duke of Wellington in Belgravia  provided a most welcome respite on a raw afternoon. We had the feeling of barging into someone’s very civilized living room. Carpeted, with a roaring fire, people were talking quietly or watching Fulham beat Chelsea muted on the telly. I’m not sure we shed our interloper status, but it was a nice stop. Continuing our all day walk, we stopped at The White Horse in Parsons Green, where the folks from the aforementioned game had begun to congregate, not causing any challenges to the bouncer stationed and alert. We finished the night with dinner and very good beer at The Old Ship, another tried and true, right on the Thames.

Last day in London had me walking around Richmond with a friend, feeling super-American as I silently gawped at many of the backdrops for Ted Lasso. That was after our previous walk around the gardens of Chiswick House, which had been the backdrop for scenes in Bridgerton. 

Thames, Richmond

​Now, my aunt is always right about these things, so when she told us we were stupid to have booked flights out of Stansted, we didn't try to defend. I won't bore you with all the agonising details of a budget flight gone awry, in the end costing more than a regular flight and taking three times as long, involving planes, trains, automobiles and buses, but let's just say that when the woman from what I now call Cryin'Air began to say "Next time....", I saved her breath by interrupting "There will be no next time." If you need advice about how to entertain yourself for 8 hours in an airport when there's nowhere to sit down, drop me a line. And yes, Heathrow next time, only Heathrow.


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First Monday in January after the holidays has a flavor of its own, often bitter. Back in Aix, it's just getting light at 8:30 am, the wind is banging the shutters against the exterior walls, it's supposed to rain for the first time, and a child is crying mercilessly outside. But.... it will be sunny tomorrow and there are new adventures ahead. Happy New Year to you.