Aix & Paris

Ayup

Are you able to claim that you have had to push away the attentions of a French man? (June, you don't count) I thought not. I am able. His three houses and that which he sold on the beach were surely meant as bait, as was an explanation of the kingdom his job oversaw in all of Southern France.And while he tried repeatedly to get my phone number, some well honed diversion tactics kicked in, which should have been more effective given that it was becoming clear my suitor had dementia. Oh, did I not mention that? Nor his ill-fitting dentures? An oversight. But he managed to fish out his card and hand it to me with a lascivious look at my legs, though not nearly as lascivious as the one he gave our poor young waitress with whom he converses every day she works. So, I can effectively get picked up in French, my grammar is improving. 

Brita, Tony and I were sitting at the prized corner outside Weibel, one of the most popular stops for decadent pastries and drinks on the tourist trail. It was a Saturday morning next to a full on market, the sun had just crested the building for enough time to cross the alley then again be obscured. There were people and dogs and babies and cars and bikes and trucks going by and we were, studied cafe sitters that we are, content. I did my best to turn my back on Jacques, once he told me that Monsieur Trump would rid America of vermin, and dove into a game that Tony and Brita were playing, which was to choose the person walking by or at a nearby cafe that you would want to spend 30 days with on a deserted island. They both picked the same person, a woman with thick grey hair loosely pulled back, off-beat clothes. They liked that the man she was with wasn't white and thought she looked interesting. I chose a tall and thin man with dark hair and skin, wearing navy blue including a baseball hat. I liked his slightly spacey and entertained look, imagining him laid back and peaceful, with an off kilter way of looking at the world, though my commitment waned when he returned a few minutes later, looking confusedly at his phone. Perhaps it would be me on navigation on the island...

At the market. tuna head?

Tony and Brita

Tony and Brita are friends from London. Brita came to stay with me last year and we had a bang up time.  And while I didn't know Tony as well, the only times we had met were when he was creating an incredible feast with cheer, and absolutely no stress. They had been trying to get here for a while but were repeatedly waylaid by a staggering amount of responsibilities, felt a bit sheepish, finding their way this past weekend. They are like two toddlers in the best possible way, in that they're more fun than most people, and are each directionally challenged in their own beautiful way. One had only 3G and is no map, the other leans towards paper maps and has a penchant for wandering off unannounced for extended periods of time, leading to my escorting them home that first night. But on day 2 things were better, and in fairness to them, it's a winding sort of place and the buildings do all look alike.

We kept busy, though it would be dishonest if I didn't admit a fair amount of that busy was sitting at a cafe drinking coffee during the day or things with bubbles in the evening.  The criminal trial of the DZ mafia heads is going longer than expected, so one night we sat across from the Palais de Justice, watching all the wonderful pageantry of the French militia, definitely of the Go Big or Go Home variety. Many many motorcycles, armored cars, gendarmerie vans, choppers overhead, on and on and on, all in their crisp blue uniforms. When there we covered many topics, and while I'm not sure how it came up, they told me about Prince Charles' response to a proposed new wing at the National Gallery, calling it a "monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend'. Since then I have been struggling to introduce the word carbuncle into conversation. According to my two translation apps, it's anthrax in French. Also the word stroppy needs more attention.

We laughed about our state of oldness. Tony introduced the idea of the list of  "things we can no longer do", which is true and when we started to discuss, naturally lost focus and began another conversation. We also shared our discomfort with technology and the feeling of getting older and not being able to keep up. As my dear friend Marion calls it, being a techno-idiot. Related, I shared a story with them that I thought might arouse a giggle. 

When I moved into my apartment here, there were two WiFi accounts it; my landlord having set one up, which I didn't understand before I set a separate one up. It took many phone calls and finally a visit by my landlord and me together to the Orange store, after I'd tried a few times on my own. Once that was done, I must have got cocky about being a technological problem solver, deciding that while I'd never had a TV before, as I was stuck with this big hulking thing in my living room, I might as well activate it. Because nothing happened when I turned it on, I went back to the Orange store and when they saw me coming, handed me a yellow stickie with a phone number to an English speaking customer service agent. After following this kind and patient person's directions, which entailed walking back and forth between my bedroom and the living room, doing lots of plugging, unplugging and pushing buttons, we determined there was something wrong with the remote, which wasn't responding. I was to receive a new one in a few days and call them back. As soon as I hung up, it occurred to me that a remote needs batteries, and that a lack of power might have contributed to the challenges. Awkward. I kept this to myself and called them when I received the new remote. Again, lots of back and forth, and pushing buttons but eventually, the TV was on with colors and pictures, I thanked them and hung up. But when I went to turn the bloody thing off, it didn't work, so I resorted to unplugging it. When I went to turn it on, the screen was again black, so I again called and we did the whole set up again. When it was time to deal with her training me in turning off technology, she advised that I first get the other remote. My confused reply was "What other remote? "  She then took a deep breath and said very gently,  "Ma'am, is there anyone younger at your house who might be able to help you?" I thanked her and hung up, unplugged the TV and there it has sat. 

Bloody hulking TV. That yellow stickie contains the English speaking customer service number.

Killer lunch Tony prepared; tuna steaks in sun dried tomatoes, white asparagus and pasta

Vacherin, Saint-Felicien, Comte and a triple cream with truffles

Brita at a cave on our hike. She wanted to climb the fence to get into the quarries, which were closed.

Yesterday, we went to Chateau LaCoste, though this time, instead of just eating, we took the 2 1/2 hour walking tour of the grounds, which is mostly vineyards with sculpture and a building or two. I had told Marianne, who initially took me to both, that I preferred Chateau de la Gaude, which her husband had designed, better than Chateau LaCoste, which is bigger and more famous. Going back for a second time to the latter, accompanied by a landscape architect and designer, this was confirmed. Owned by a Irishman who has asked every famous architect and artist to add something wherever they please, it is impressive from a compendium standpoint, but as Brita noted, the lack of a master plan looms large, leaving one with feelings of confusion and occasionally asphyxiation, as sitting at the cafe, one is surrounded by old provencal buildings on two sides, a Tadao Ando building and water feature jammed right in there and fairly nearby on a third side, and quite close by, two metal hangar like buildings. But in the end, while there were things that jarred, there was enough good to look at, and looking at art in vineyards is not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon. 

Not a bad place to look at art

Louise Bourgeois spider next to Tadao Ando building

This building, designed by Oscar Niemeyer shortly before he died, was my favorite

Marc Newton, inside the Niemeyer building

Ranunculi by which I will remember a most excellent weekend with Brita and Tony. Thank you.

​Many years ago, there was a TV show called Candid Camera, the premise of which was to set up situations designed to surprise, annoy or delight victims, their reactions being the point of the show. Since leaving the US, life sometimes feels one long Candid Camera, with so many bureaucratic dead ends that Toni and Candace of Women and Women First start to seem like easy-going, flexible gals. I often laugh at the absurdity, and have come to assume others are watching behind some screen and having a good giggle, happy to oblige.

For example, the British and Maltese governments have teamed up, with the UK now renewing my passport because there isn't a middle initial on my Maltese passport. Not only have they kept the old one, but also the fee, and have, as of February 1st instated a regulation that any British citizen can only enter the country on their British passport. Haha. Then Malta, winking behind my back with tears of laughter streaming down its cheeks, tells me it will take a year to get a new passport. Details, you don't need to understand, but the whole long ordeal resulted in me needing to go to Paris to get a form signed at the Maltese Embassy. So was I surprised when I got to Rue d'Artois and saw what is below when searching for the Embassy? Would I be surprised if it was located in the back room and only open in the evenings? Ah life, how jolly.

OK...

Legit embassy

In the end, they were sadly housed in a legit building and my girl Kimberly proved warm and helpful, a first on this most comical journey. A form of some sort has now been singed, witnessed, submitted and processed, documentation provided. Some thing, I'm not sure what, must be moving forward. Oh, what will be next and how delightfully will it be complicated with me being in the US this summer? 

Paris was wonderful. The weather was perfection + 5 degrees, any sort of tourist visit inside was out of the question, instead I chose to walk from the Gare de Lyon on the east side of the rive droit to the 16th, where I was staying with a kind woman I'd met in Aix. So many had told me to brave the lines to see the new Notre Dame, the word luminous was tossed around liberally, but when I got to that part of the city, surrounded by overheated, grouchy people, it just wasn't possible, The 16th, which to me has the feeling of the Upper East Side, I loved for its quiet elegance, and could have camped out there forever. But as I was only there for a day, after becoming acquainted with the GSpot and submitting my form, I hoofed it back to Gare de Lyon via the Seine, where everyone seemed to be taking their last run before the marathon the Paris Marathon that I believe was yesterday.

A quick lunch at Le Train Bleu, inside Gare de Lyon

Beautiful columns near Place des Voges that made me think of Call My Agent

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In the heart of tourist hell, Rue de Rivoli, a cool reflection

First time up close and personal. Whatever

Let me get back to you...

Much more my speed

Everything was blooming

So many fountains, but not as. many as Aix!

Quiet part, down on the riva