Ravel, in Aubagne

 "Throwing spaghetti against the wall"  and "careful what you wish for" keep appearing.

In Brookline I was content, even happy, satisfied. Hard won, these past years are best described as low friction, with work done on my own schedule, nice places to go and people to be with, hobbies that brought me much pleasure, a comfortable place to live. Taken in the context of a life, having much strife removed could be equated with reaching some kind of a summit. And while I'm no Nims Purja, once arriving there and having time to enjoy the view, a restlessness arose. What was next?

So, here I am, sitting on a crooked couch in Aix, looking out the window at the asparagus fern hanging over ochre limestone of the building across a narrow street, bluey grey shutters and the curvy design of a wrought iron street lamp. It's a grey Saturday late morning, the muffled bell of the electric golf cart occasionally clanking, requesting that pedestrians move to the side so that it can continue its mission of transporting the less mobile. There are voices of excitement and joy, laughter, mostly female but once in a while a couple of men doing their best to drown out the chatter. And though it's unlikely anyone will sit at them in the wet, the tables and chairs are set out in front of the tiny restaurants because they are stored at night in the middle of the restaurant where patrons eat on rainy or cold days.  France is a country of furniture movers and there are few things I'm enjoying more right now than having morning coffee while watching proprietors conduct their daily routine. A different view, indeed. 

Careful what you wish for, says I to myself at the end of a week that has been far from frictionless. Tired of throwing spaghetti at the wall, since having closed my last search for a while. I've agreed to say yes to as many things as possible. And still, everything's exhausting, either because it's in French, or culturally unfamiliar. I recently went to change some currency and entered behind a man who after getting his Euros changed to Turkish Lira, thought nothing of asking the money changer for tourist information about Istanbul, to which the changer was happy to oblige. After 25 minutes, I left, after having a conversation in my head about embracing French culture,  the slowness and personableness, then storming out thinking "yes, but there are limits"  Managing both my own frustration and desire to understand and embrace, well those things are happening many times each day and are exhausting.

The Wolf Pack set off for a hike, a lovely group of people with whom I'm beginning to feel comfortable. Why? They have a group decision tree with which I'm familiar. It goes like this.

Hmmm, it might be grey or rainy, shall cancel?
No, it looks like the weather might be better where we're going
As it turns out, it's  raining, shall we do this?
Let's complete the first part and we can then decide if we want to continue or come back.
It's still raining, shall we go on or go back?
No, onwards!

The bad weather meant we missed the stunning view of Mt. Ste Victoire and a valley below, were whipped by wind, but there was a collective sense of enjoyment and little doubt that we would do what we'd set out to. To make things more interesting, I was the only American, others are from Mexico, Canada, Ireland, Wales, Turks & Caicos, Lebanon, Thailand, Spain, Belgium, Singapore, Australia, Solomon Islands and Reunion. And more.  Spending adventurous outdoor time with them was wonderful but also made me miss the wonderful paddle posse in Boston, even the shoveling and sweeping of snow, blue fingers and tight muscles. 

Our trail was beautiful, but cold and wet

Paddle is definitely the game that brings about the most giggles and wove some really great friendships that I know will continue on. I have been low key trying to get involved in tennis and/or padel, but so far nothing has gelled. There's part of me that is fine with hiking, zillions of miles of walking and the gym, giving the body a rest and the soul a chance for other pursuits. When I was invited to join the Pickleball group this past week, I'll admit I jumped at it in a way that wouldn't have happened were tennis or paddle or padel options.  Yesterday the kind Alisa gave Scott and me a ride over to courts behind the monster Carrefours in Les Milles and there, along with 11 others, I got to pick up a racquet and chase a ball and feel those feelings of focus and frustration and glee, granted on a much smaller scale. It was about half English speakers and half French, one of the better being a firefighter with a shaved head, big beard and many tattoos on one calf including one that said JAWS. Apparently the firemen set up a court at the station and wile away the hours dinking. I definitely need to low key my style of play, it's so much more social. We'll see how that goes.... Nat does a really funny imitation of me when I'm waiting for her to begin a rally, my impatient head nodding like "let's go!".

Where Ravel  lives

There is a lovely woman named Martine who, while French, has lived most of her life in Hong Kong, resulting in her feeling more like ex-pat than French. She is one of those people with buckets of enthusiasm along with an ability to actually make things happen. She is responsible for the Taste the World group that goes to a different country's restaurant every month, curated by one of the members from that country. This past week she organized a tour of Ravel in Aubagne, home of clay. Ravel has been in existence since 1837 and is apparently the only place that makes and sells their good with local clay.

Our tour began outside, where we saw the raw ingredient, two big piles of what looked like wet scrabble, one a brownish color, the other grey. Inside, it was first mixed with water and smoothed, in something similar to a Kitchen Aid, and then pushed along a conveyor belt where the water was pushed out, then squeezed through a hole similar in function to that of the Play Doh factory (though not star shaped). Someone was on hand when the clay came out of the hole to chop it off into bricks, after which it was put in a sealable container where it can be kept indefinitely.  The clay is then diverted to be sold as is, or sent to either the hand made or machine made rooms. The former, for smaller things, was mesmerizing, we all stared at this potter who quickly made beautiful things out of blobs and water, talking as he worked, first wetting his hands, pushing the clay down, building it up, then pushing it down again, building it up, hollowing it out, shaping it and smoothing it, putting a wire underneath to remove it cleanly from the wheel.

Marianne

Marianne, the woman who tried so very hard to hide her surprise when I told her last year that I knew no one in Aix, has become a real friend. She works with her architect husband, and had long told me about a project they'd worked on nearby. A few weeks back, we took a zip out there and she showed me around this beautiful property that when they began working, was an abandoned Bastide, and is now a luxury hotel and fancy-ass restaurant. We had breakfast in a cave that had been built by Romas as a bath, then roamed around olive groves and vineyards, enjoying the beauty everywhere.

The figurative morning after

Happy New Year and all that jazz, which you might surmise, is not really my thing, hasn't been since waking up on a bathroom floor in Cayman, creases on my cheek from the tile design on which I had slept.  But I was sad to not enjoy this years NYE company because our hostess Valerie from Fairbanks, Alaska got stuck there, in temperatures that regularly hovered at -30F, though it was because of snow in Amsterdam that all flights were delayed. Don't tell her, but I was going  to sneak out of her party at 8pm anyway.

One theory about the flight delays at Schipol is that those crazy Dutch were having a bit too much fun.

So it was a monastic early to bed and traditional sigh of relief.

At Tanglewood, I worked with and became friends with a guy named Dave who oversaw the grounds crew out there. A Pittsfield native, he has a natural curiosity as well as a disdain for city folk before he knows them. In the winter, I'd drive out there to keep the crew connected to life at  Symphony Hall after which Dave would take me out to lunch. I once remarked that I loved the way the Berkshires look in the winter, the clean lines, tidiness and simplicity. Well, he darn near fell off his barstool, thought I was off my rocker. "What, you don't like color? You don't like life and blooming and green?"  He never let me forget that comment, though I stand by it. Other seasons are good too, it's just that the lack of color and visual clutter of dead winter is calming, all that negative space. 

January is the non-visual equivalent. The neutral and calming after the exciting overload, in this case the holidays. It's low energy, a little introspective, and according to a woman I met who calls herself a spiritual guide but to me seemed more of a lecturer, a time to plant seeds for the following summer.  Well I'm not sure there's much sowing going on at 20 Rue Paul Bert, but I have been appreciating the sometimes uncomfortable quiet of Aix on a Monday morning when the shops are no longer open, the kids are back at school, and the Christmas markets, santon vendors and kiddie rides have been dissembled and gone. No distractions.  My acupuncturist once said: "Do you know why we sleep so much in winter?" "Because we want to", meaning, listen to your body. Usually a no curtain in the bedroom adherent, there's a (naturally charming) street light outside my apartment which has led to an introduction to the power of room darkening curtains, leading to a recent 10:40 am rise. But life hasn't all been sleeping and solitude.

I had rather pushily invited myself to a group called the Alternative Wolf Pack Hiking Group, but due to responsibilities, hadn't been able to join until this past Tuesday. You're wondering about the etymology, aren't you? Apparently there was a hiking group that found people bringing dogs to be a bit of a problem, so the dog owners formed their own alternative group. Maybe there was one that looked like a wolf? The hikes take place once a week all about an hour drive from Aix in different directions. A few kind souls, many of whom seemed to not have dogs, consult All Trails and then send out a text with a rendezvous time and place. Even kinder, some provide rides for those of us who don't have cars, and then we all troop through the forest or up the mountain, with someone minding the app to make sure the sheep aren't straying. Lunch and a picnic are part of the activity, as is lots of chatting with whomever you find yourself next to.  It was wonderful and I'm looking forward to the next hike. 

There are so many groups doing different activities. Some are all ex-pat, some half and half, this one the latter.  As I've melted into group life a bit, there has been a learning curve. The first is that some of the people I'm with have been living here for 20 years and are waaaay past the "Where are you from?" convo. Others are living in Aix after having lived in six other countries and don't have the childish enthusiasm and curiosity that I might about all things new and different.  So every new group joined, I am careful to suss things out and get the vibe before I go into my customary interview mode.  The French people in general tend to be more curious, genuinely interested in hearing about my background and reasons for being here, and still, despite the news, about what it's like to live in the United States. The other thing I'm still working on is figuring out when to speak English, when to speak my stuttering French and when to just keep quiet. I want to work on my French and know that the only way it will improve is speaking, however it's slow, I am often at a loss for a word and slow, imagining how patient the listener has to be and how hard it would be in my shoes. English would be easy of course but then why am I here and how am I ever going to learn??  So, sometimes I'm just quiet, not wanting to interrupt the flow of a conversation. I know, surprising.