Classic Aix

After the many blessings August held, a misgiving or two might have arisen while traveling over the Atlantic. But even arriving at 5 in the morning to a deserted Charles DeGaul provided a happy and light feeling. Perhaps it was hearing French again, or the laissez fairness of everyone and low level of, if not cheer, amusement. 

Arriving in Aix, sleepless, 95 degrees (it's a dry heat), hauling an "extra large" suitcase with non-working wheels through hordes of cruise boat victims following bored guides holding up signs, none of it mattered, it was so good to be back. First priority, off to the "backyard", the small market. There's the old ambivalent cheese man wearing his Amish-like fedora, handwritten signs still the same. Deux chèvres cremeux, s'il vous plait. Tomatoes in vibrant colors and varied sizes, then to Hat's for buckwheat bread. Turns out that while the meal was good, the exercise was actually a reassurance reconnaissance. And everything checked out. 

First forage

My new apartment is I hope my long-term home. By French standards, it's big  with large rooms, high ceilings, beautiful high windows, lots of storage space, newly renovated, two bedrooms with en-suite in each. Most exciting for this Ludite is the ice and water dispenser and dishwasher that lights up the floor with the length of time left in the cycle. Such mod cons. Lots of business setting up the new place; hunting, gathering, moving, unpacking. While it was a time with a fair amount to do, leading to a certain goal orientedness, Aix has a way of reminding it's citizens that there's more to life than whatever serious thing it is that they're doing.  It happens so often that I can only laugh now, switching into a less focused and more joyous mode. Stop, look around, appreciate, smile, sometimes giggle, become centered.

Kitchen

Living room

My bedroom

Guest bedroom

Courtyard 

First guest,. New plates and glasses, farm flowers and tomatoes

Yesterday, on the way to buy milk, it was a trio playing keyboards that sounded like organ,  and an early woodwind and small trumpet playing Bach-like pieces, ever so casually in front of the church that's been under renovation since I arrived two years ago. They played on while kids kicked a football and old men sat on their bikes, talking and showing each other things on their phones. Music sounds more holy when it's performed in proximity to a building created about the same time as the original score.

Today it was less holy but very entertaining; old men with their antique cars, proud as peacocks showing them off, so shiny with French flags sticking out, posturing next to the cars or inside. After the market one morning, there was the exhibit in the church that's never been opened, to me telling the story of death and resurrection or whatever happens after we die. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention last Sunday, or was it the one before? being the annual blessing of the calissons which included a church service and full processional, along with a demonstration of the almond crushing machine. If those weren't enough, there are the daily, hourly reminders; parents having long and interesting conversations with their children, people using cafes as their living rooms and an abundance of churches, there to duck into when it's hot, that smell that settles me and once, the organist practicing. 

There is so much here that fills my heart. 

Resurrection

Death

Pretty church intersecting with art

On my way to the gym I happened upon these lovely ladies blessing the calissons. You can't see the fife and drummers, but they were there, making merry. 

It feels lazy to lean on the markets, but they do make daily quality of life so much better. They are beautiful and local and gritty and provide an ongoing simple and satisfying sense of abundance. Tomatoes, peaches, all manner of plums and melon have been on heavy rotation. It is also bean season, so when I saw cranberry beans the other day, I felt compelled to buy them along with haricot vert and runner beans, putting together a classic soupe au pistou. I got out my olive wood mortar and pestle and got to pounding basil, salt and garlic. An hour later, a beautiful soup was complete, but sadly tasted like absolutely nothing. 

I didn't know I liked cantaloupe until moving here. They are perhaps my favorite right now.

These plums too. The ones on the left, Reine Claude, float around my kitchen, shopping bags and pockets. There are also some yellow ones call Mirabelle, no bigger than a malted milk ball.

Basilicus Gargantuous

Soupe au Poo

I had just made my initial hike up to Tour Cesar and was almost home, hot, tired and hungry. But there outside the church that's part of the museum was a sign reminding us that it was the first Sunday which means free admission to any museum in France. Well, in I went and there was this funny exhibit of Alex Kosta's work, some of which I didn't connect with. But he created these pieces making two dimensional images three dimensional with cardboard, and I rather enjoyed his whole way of thinking about that. It's a little gallery and took me not more than 20 minutes to walk through. What a nice stop

This work by Alex Kosta best represents the three-dimensionality he played with

But I liked this best

An early recollection I have is of my father taking me to a ship launch in La Ciotat, where he worked when we lived in Cassis. Maybe I was 3, 4? So I hopped on the 72 to Aubagne, switching to the 69 to La Ciotat depot, which is on the opposite side of a very pretty harbor from the shipyard. A quick perusal told me it was a much less touristy, but just as pretty harbor as Cassis, having the additional allure of a long boardwalk abutting sandy beaches with windex water. After getting as close to the shipyard as I could, and visiting the Maritime Museum, no more of the memory came to mind, so I put that aside and climbed the hill to the Calanque du Grand Mugel. According to the google, a calanque is "a narrow, steep-walled rocky inlet or cove carved into limestone along the Mediterranean". There are many between Marseille, Cassis and La Ciotat. Not wanting to have worn an extra layer of one piece bathing suit on a very hot day, I gracelessly pulled it on under sweaty clothes and over sweaty skin, people sitting less than a foot away (the beach part is small and it was crowded). But it's kind of OK in France, and was worth it, diving into that very clear, cool and somehow soft water, sounds of talking and splashing echoing more as the beach was enclosed. 

La Ciotat is a place I'd tell people to go as it's pretty and there are many options for entertainment, without the competition of Cassis.

La Ciotat harbor

Calanque du Grand Mugel, La Ciotat

Along the boardwalk, La Ciotat

On the way back, I stopped for a bit in Aubagne, going to Ravel, which is a very old provencal pottery making place that I had visited last year. It's about a ten minute walk from the bus station, and it was funny to remember how incredibly cold it had been last time around as sweat dripped off my face. Crossing over a bridge, there were many men seated, looking down at a football pitch, where the Aubagne team were playing another. There were the same sorts of sounds as an American football game, drumming and singing and who knows what else. I stayed until Aubagne got a goal, sad when learning later that they lost 1-2.  One gets attached...

When Aubagne was still winning 

One last story.

Christine, who organizes Tuesday hikes, sent a text out telling her group that she was going out of town, but that her garden in Fuveau was full of lavender that needed picking, that in fact we'd be doing her a favor. Being a pensioner, I don't think about planning any kind of trip in advance, I simply go to where the google tells me and wait to see what happens. And so for 20 minutes I waited for the right number to come along. It was only once on the bus that it became clear the next stop, not even a kilometer later, would be mine, where I'd switch. Off I got and sat in the hot late morning sun, waiting for about 45 minutes, buses to the country not coming quite as often. There were two other riders on a rather large bus, and I was the first off at Cimetière, or Cemetery. Not a soul to be seen, not even a house, sun beating down a little more insistently. I followed the google down a lane and up a pretty steep hill and back over the hill and down with a beautiful view of Mt. Ste. Victoire. By then there were occasional houses in the distance as some bushwhacking started. As it seemed like snake territory, a lot of stomping took place, waking up dogs who barked angrily at having been interrupted. 

After about half hour an hour, I reached her house, of course at the end of the road. There were fig trees in process of being picked, and a profusion of lavender, among other things. I took out my trusty Joyce Chen scissors and went to work. Turns out it's possible to cut an obscene amount of lavender in less than 10 minutes, which seemed a bit of an anti-climax, having had an image of me bent over all day with some sort of sickle. There was nothing to be done but head back up the hill by an alternate route with less dogs, bringing me to a ridge line that allowed a view of both Victoire and a hill with pine trees and pretty provencal houses on the other. Soaking wet at this point, my left arm cramping after holding the lavender haul, I started cackling, thinking about the joy and absurdity of me walking along this lane looking at these houses with a large load of lavender. It was a great moment.

Intentionally not having looked at my phone to see the time of the next bus coming, because who wants to rush in a situation like that? I wasn't surprised, though I was dismayed to see an hour wait until the next one. And so it was that I made myself at home near the cimitière, finding a stone wall that was in the partial shade. I took out my scissors and went to work, trimming all the lavender and putting it in bunches so that all I'd need to do when I got home was tie it up.   When finally on the bus, everyone remarked about the smell. It was only when back walking through the tourist shops that it became apparent that my flowers were post peak, grey instead of purple. But the smell was there and strong. 

Walked along a train line for a while to get there

Score

Lavender processing station near the bus stop

OK, Deb's arriving tomorrow from Santa Monica and we're likely headed to Italy for some adventure. More soon.

Luckily, Air France asked me to check this carryon. Would have had to depend on the kindness of strangers to lift such a load otherwise.

It's hard to articulate the despondency that overcomes me when at a bookstore or antique book market in France. So close and yet so far, shut out by language, still.  This repeated alienation has led to a not low level of anxiety around English language reading materials and maybe a wee bit of hoarding. Brookline has spoiled me with its extensive and responsive libraries, numerous well-stocked Little Libraries, the Booksmith. So, when coming upon a seller of English language books in another country, rationality doesn't always rule. Making a purchase once at Schipol, I was handed an additional for free. Because it was in English and I was about to take a flight, I read it, even though it was called the Pumpkin Spice Cafe, a story of a young woman and man who are dating in a small town that holds regular fairs with balloons, where everyone knows each other and bands together in times of need, resulting in a positive outcome with a moralistic bent. 

Why am I telling you about this? As a disclaimer and acknowledgement that some reading can be a bit to treacly. As many times as I've rewritten this post which preserves my bookend to summer of 2026 in Boston, I can inject no irony, seamy underside. There was nothing but goodness and profound kindness to which I've done my best to do proper, though still inadequate, justice. 

It was to a celebration of Deb's birthday that 12 of us were gathering to play some tennis, though when I arrived, Iit was confusing to see Jenn, who is not a rule breaker,  wearing a (mon Dieu!) black hat, and then she was with flourish, handing out French flags. Slowly, light dawned on marble head. She and Deb had put this lovely afternoon together that I hope celebrated Deb and Anne, who both had birthdays, as much as sending me off to the place of wine and cigarettes. It was dear and special, filled with such happiness and kindness that it was impossible to not have doubts about eaving.  That Anne, at my behest, bought the birthday cake for someone else without mentioning it was her birthday might give you an idea of how lucky I am to have the friends I have.  Dear Jenn and Deb and Anne especially, but everyone else too, thank you for being who you are and making life so rich. It was such a fun afternoon.

Lindsey, Chrisanne, Mary, Sally, Sandra, Nancy, Jenn, Erica and Liz, then Anne, me and Deb in the front row. So much fun.

Have I told this story before? If so, feel free to skip ahead. Many many years ago, Jude and I had just flagged down a cab outside her apartment at 72 W 72nd.  A woman got out and we got in and after a few minutes, we noticed a classic black bridle Hermes scarf on the seat next to us. Jude, who had many beautiful Hermes scarves, but is also obscenely generous, gave it to me. For ages, it was a part of me, dressing up kilts and coats and cardigans and evening wear. One day, I ran for the C Line, just making it. When I sat and looked out the window, there was a woman picking up that scarf and walking away with a smile on her face. After feeling a painful pang of loss, I came to understand that the scarf had only been mine for a bit, and was now meant to be enjoyed by someone else. I wished her much joy.

Years later, the only time I've ever had a storage space, the owners doubled the rent a month after I'd moved everything in. In retribution, I took everything out and distributed the contents to various sidewalks around Allston and Brighton. While there was likely some holy underwear, sweat stained tennis tops, and chipped coffee mugs, there were also place settings of Tiffany tableware, silver serving dishes, other antique junk I'd been keeping for ages but knew I'd never use. I imagined an old Russian lady with one of those shopping caddies, finding and taking the silver serving dishes, later showing her daughter how there's silver on the sidewalks of Allston. One of my friends still gets a little green when we rehash this story, but something had happened with the scarf that made me understand how everything is transient. The storage boxes helped me to understand that for me, belongings have a weight to which I am beholden. So, after wasting a bunch of time on FB Marketplace, I gave most of my earthly belongings away, which, after the logistics were done, allowed for deeper breaths. 

Not going to lie, still a little painful

These plates were a part of me, but it was time.

Bags getting packed, lived in chaos for a few weeks

Off to a Northeastern dorm room

Last morning at Kilsyth

I've never liked questions like Who is your hero? Am I supposed to say Gandhi? I don't know. I've never had one. But someone who comes close is Roger Federer; his breathtaking style of play, impeccable manners, always perfectly tidy hair even after a five set thrashing. So when Jenn asked whether I'd like to go to his induction into the International Tennis Hall of Fame, any thought of packing or deadlines was thrown out the window. We tootled off one Saturday to Newport, meeting up with a bunch of buddies to ogle the absurd amount of tennis history walking by on the red carpet. And then there he was, introduced beautifully by his wife. It was an honor to be there, and even more fun to have one last day with Jenn.

Don't judge, we were hungry

Angela, Katie, Mariellen, Jenn, Beth, KO and me, ITHOF

The Legend

When a gap arose between the time I needed to vacate my apartment and the USA, dear Chris and Carin raised their hands and gave me, I really can't say roof over my head because it was nicer staying with them than it ever was in my apartment. The way I know I love them both is the level of comfort and contentment sitting at the kitchen table with them,  on say a Sunday afternoon while Carin and I are having a cuppa and Chris is making focaccia or a bolognese or my favorite, scallion pancakes. It's not really important what we're talking about and there's certainly no end goal, we're just happy to be together and that is just the best feeling in the world. It is that that they gave me and I'm sad I don't have a photo to share of both of them in their natural habitat.

For the last night in the US, my dear friend Katharine drove down from Newburyport to pick me up at Longwood, where I had stashed a yellow Ikea bag holding my remaining belongings, in the bushes next to the parking lot. She first drove me for an emergency last stop at Kikis for a 500g jar of Marmite to be transported back across the Atlantic, and then a very good lunch across the street at the Brazilian market. After, she carted me up north, where we had a killer ice cream at Hodgies in Amesbury, oh it was so very good. She made a most excellent lobster dinner, and then it was early to bed, with the end in sight.

But when waking up the next morning, the weeks of well-denied stress finally crescendoed, putting my back into a spasm. I was at a loss, and Katharine took control, going mom while I reverted to toddlerhood. She mapped out the day, told me what I needed to do and when, got me to the chiropractor in Newton, fed me, carried my bags, and somehow got me to the airport on time. And Rob, bless him, gave me an electric stim experience and some drugs to be used in an emergency. While the logistics proved  important, it was the love and care that this dear friend of so many years showed me for which I'm most grateful. Of all the people I've ever met in my life, she's the person who is the most intrinsically kind.

So thank you, Katharine, and thank you everyone else, my village that's not so unlike the one in the goofy book, for making it so difficult and easy to leave Boston. It's not that we deserve or don't deserve happiness or kindness, but I am not quite sure how I got so lucky to be given so much. I will miss you.

View from the end of Katharine's road, Newburyport, MA

Rob and Katharine and some very delicious lobsters

Real tomato with Jude's man who will make the journey next year

Looking back on the month of August, I have an overwhelming memory of profound kindness from such dear people, it's moving to think how lucky I am to know the people I know, and definitely too hard to convey here. But it was a truly moving month, and I'll be writing about a lot of these experiences, because they are holding important places in my heart. 

When this randy brain has something complicated to solve, such as liquidating and moving one's earthly possessions within a limited window of time, it tends to do a bang up job of producing problem-solving snippets. But things tend to go awry when it comes to pasting them all together, invariably leading to last minute crises. Given this, one might begin such work early, allowing for maximum pivoting time. But just as socializing seemed crucial on the nights before big exams in college, instead of plodding along, I opted for a delightful panoply of experiences, accompanied by a low-level dread for sure, but that's par for the course. 

Dear Carin and me on the Fast Ferry to Provincetown

Me inside the Pilgrim Monument, Provincetown

Provincetown is a good place to live if you're an annual

Earlier in the month, Carin and I cheekily met early one morning at the wharf where Codzilla lives, to  tootle over to Provincetown on the fast ferry. After being surrounded by sky and sea for a few hours, it was a bit of a shock to disembark into hordes of day trippers like ourselves, staring at each other, mulling around seemingly without intent. We also hadn't a plan, but after a frozen moment, committed to spending the grey day looking at art. We stopped in at most of the galleries on Commercial Street, each getting better than the next as we moved away from the wharf, ending at the Provincetown Art Museum, which had exhibits of three different artists who had painted there. Carin ran into someone she knew who apparently traveled from Brookline to PTown regularly. Being as usual peckish, I asked if she had any recommendations for lunch places. After giving us the name of a restaurant nearby, her endorsement was "yeah, it's great, it's really big". Carin and I looked at each other with wide eyes, thanked her, then crossed the street to the wee grocery store on the sea-side, the one with the old fashioned wooden screen door that slams just how you like it, to enjoy the lyrical Jamaican patois of our sandwich makers, if not the sandwiches. PS Jalapeño Cheese potato chips are not a good idea.

Later, we climbed the Pilgrim Monument and were at first miffed that there wasn't a carved stone for Brookline inside the monument, as there were for most other towns in Massachusetts. But when we learned the reason, that the town Fathers hadn't ponied up to support building the monument, we became sheepish and then determined to write a letter to the always earnestly concerned neighborhood group. We never did.  Because A Prayer for Owen Meany was still in my mind, we admired the stone carving work.

It was the perfect day with a most wonderful friend. 

I would be dishonest if I didn't include this. Lots but not enough

Weasel and rabbit

Yes, there was tennis, some lovely tennis. At first the grass wasn't open much, and my body was a little shocked after taking the winter off. Dr. Lauren taped me up, but then it rained so the grass wasn't open. Then I started hitting singles and loving the pace and movement, the ability to get in the flow. And then Kid, who likes to belt the fuzz off the ball, arrived and I was commissioned to be a human backboard, which was profoundly fun. But through it all, I never quite got in the classic doubles on grass vibe, and maybe spent only one night on the porch, which is a travesty. Needless to say, mental plans are being made for next summer already. 

One morning, playing doubles on clay next to the brick path, we heard that awful animal fighting or giving birth sound. On the other side of the brick path was a weasel attacking  Peter Rabbit's great great granddaughter, so heartlessly. It went on and on as we stood there frozen watching. Without thinking, I went over to the skirmish and used my brand new blue Babolat to separate them, but the weasel's teeth were dug in deep and it was having none of it, so I started hitting the weasel, forcing it to eventually wander off. But Flossie was half way to her maker, there was no bringing her back, and Nate, who heads up the grounds crew which spends a fair amount of time ridding the beds of rabbits, in his quiet and patient way took her to her resting place. It was easy to see in retrospect that hitting a weasel with a blunt instrument isn't any better than letting a weasel attack a rabbit, presumably for food at least, and that I was intervening with another animal ridding Nate of a garden predator was likely not appreciated either. 

So when I looked out the window of my new apartment in France (which I'll get to in another post) and saw two pigeons attacking a third one, despite wanting to stop the brutality, I knew not to get involved. It seems to be a hobby in which they partake every afternoon, these two bullies. What is it about creatures that we need to pick on those less strong? For food is one thing, but the google tells me that pigeons don't eat pigeons so why not just bloody leave that poor thing alone? And I'm not even going to get into humans.  OK, I'm done.

My dear one, Newburyport

And then who popped into town in the middle of everything? Mrs. Fun, and fun we had My low-level dread and guilt disappeared for hours at a time as we did our thing, which almost always involves wandering in one form or another. We went into Boston a few times, once to eat salt and pepper shrimp at Peach Farm, nicely accompanied by another favorite, garlicky pea shoots which had just the right amount of bite. Despite my daughter not wanting to see the elephants on the Commonwealth Mall, I forced her. We saw, we photoed, we left. 

We also took a trip out to the Berkshires and Upstate New York to see my sister Jude, who was going through the same thing as me; clearing out a lifetime of stuff in anticipation of moving to a smaller place. Nat, who coincidentally was also moving into a new home on September 1st, hadn't seen her in many years, and it brought me such joy for them to have time together and understand each other. They share the same ability to pay attention to the world in a way that's different than most people. And a profound kindness. And they're both recipients of my profound love.

We toodled around the Woodstock hardware store, which is one of the best, and after in Jude's cabin, I said goodbye to many of the things that have been associated with Jude over the years, going back to the 80s. And as is customary when seeing her, we left ladened with beautiful things.

In the Berkshires, we stopped in at High Lawn Farm, prompting us to rethink using milk products, those poor old cows don't have a great life. And so we climbed my old daily climb, Monument Mountain, where I showed Nat the rock I sit on when I throw off wedding rings from prior husbands. Good role modeling, I know.

High Lawn Farm, Lee MA

Nat, Jude and me at Jude's wee cabin in Woodstock, NY

Bob Cronin's painting, which I treasure, that Jude gave me. 

A quick stop for ice cream in Hudson NY. It was a Monday and everything was closed, but we had a nice kale salad and felt August sun pounding down on us mercilessly

Waay back in the party days, my mother would repeatedly ask "Are you playing any tennis?" to which I'd give my predictable answer, "No", to which she'd always respond "I wish you would, you meet the nicest people playing tennis." Eyeroll.

My dear friend's son was getting married in York, Maine, providing an opportunity to get in touch with a friend I'd met playing (paddle) tennis, back when we traveled New England to play tournaments. She was the first Mainer I met, I liked her immediately. We stayed in touch and at one point, a few of us put together a Beanpot tournament, Brookline vs Maine, and we'd play more for fun, then celebrate after. Because I'm sadly no longer in the paddle tennis loop, we'd been out of touch for a few years, but this wedding turned out to be a lovely excuse to reconnect, so she came down to Longwood, and then was kind enough to have me to stay at her house overlooking a river, full of birds and flowers. While we'd always had fun together, on and near the court, this time we had the luxury of spending an afternoon and the sliver of a morning together, just the two of us with no distractions, which was very special. Yes Mom, you're right, you do meet the nicest people playing tennis, she says sheepishly. 

Lucas and Racquel's wedding day. Wishing them both all good things

Old ladies on the dance floor; Janet, Katharine and me, York, ME.