 Well hello, dear one, it's so nice to see you  And you, saucy ladies!  And you, shy little thing in the middle of the big forest First, an acknowledgement that it's far from spring in the US. I hope this doesn't feel as though your face is being rubbed, rather that you are being encouraged, reminded. The French friends I have insist it's still winter, but the tiny, brave little things that have been announcing themselves, not to mention the nearby fields' bright green corduroy rows punctuated by reddish brown, say otherwise. Perhaps, like the glass half empty, what to others is winter, to my state of mind, is spring. The last few days of sun after months of grey and so much rain (I know, I know, it's not snow and at least it's above freezing. I am truly sorry) have made being a citizen of the world feel something of a religious experience. Back when I was trying to untangle all the assumptions that had surreptitiously wound around and knotted me up, my shrink tried to help me understand my very British mother and typically Mediterranean father, by telling me that research has shown that the nearer someone lives to the equator, the more likely he or she is to live for the moment. Naturally, not always true (as evidenced by my French friends), but an interesting framework to kick around. When the sun creates these crazy beautiful shadows on the solid but tired and washed out buildings of Aix, when bouquets of mimosa wrapped in brown paper are something of a regular accessory, when the cafes are packed from morning until well after midnight with content voices softly bouncing off the stone of the streets and buildings*, I am bowled over by a feeling of good fortune. So yes, why think about tomorrow when today is just so incredibly perfect? It makes sense to squeeze every last drop out of it. And so it has been. A feeling of freedom had been starting to percolate, egged on by nice weather, but also brought on by having just about completed the painful list of bureaucratic headaches. Adding to that, I finished what may be my last search and find myself inexplicably choosing penury over hustling for my next gig. I'm freeeeee. And keep thinking of that license plate from the 80's: No clock, no shoes, no boss, no mortgage, It's an odd feeling combination of unnerving and shockingly exciting. perhaps the late winter, early spring of a new life....  I can't stop thinking about Marianne's painted blue Virgin Mary that's in her hallway. She's too heavy to steal. After a 10-mile hike on Saturday followed by dinner out, I was expecting a low key day on Sunday, but Marianne called and said "Nous allons à Chateau LaCoste aujord'hui!" and up she pulled in her Mini convertible with the top down, and a TOP GUN baseball hat for me to wear. We drove past hills and vineyards and crumbling old houses and some posh new ones, to arrive at this interesting property that some Irish guy developed, making bio wine, having a hotel and multiple restaurants as well as housing some interesting art (Louise Bourgeois' spider, a smaller version than was at the Tate Modern for all those years) that we would have had to pay to go and see. But it's a lovely property with some old buildings and a modern one designed by Tadao Ando, where we lunched, outside in the sun, overlooking the vineyards.  The walkway where we managed to avoid Security, who had already busted us once for walking where we shouldn't have (Marianne told me after that having done that made me officially French) Chateau LaCoste  Our lunch spot. The menu was only in English. Chateau LaCoste  Rosé fountain?  Weird shit that we shouldn't have been looking at, Chateau LaCoste It's school vacation now so many of the regular meetups aren't happening, but one woman, who wasn't going to be able to hike again until September, was hellbent on going to the source of the Huveaune at Sainte Baume. I had hiked with her once, but didn't know her at all, and knew she spoke only French. Oh well, it would be an experience. She was kind enough to pick me up, despite it being in the opposite direction. I have had many experiences like that, where people have gone out of their way to do some kindness and then appear to think nothing of it. I really like that about most of the French people I've met and wonder if it's because they know how to take care of themselves, which makes it easier to be naturally kind to others. This woman is originally from Reunion and grew up when the volcano was active, enjoying picnics that turned into fêtes that celebrated eruptions that happened. Perhaps it was this that gave her a fierce love of nature. The water was amazing, coming from the source, descending in a stream that had become calcified, forming pools made of soft, rounded white rock which made the water appear an astonishing bluey green. I'm putting a link in because it was almost impossible to photograph, and there's a photo on the website that will give you an idea.  We each took 485 photographs, stopping every 3 feet It turns out that she does speak English, and funnily enough, once I knew that, it was easier to speak French. Spending time in this really beautiful place and being with someone who was so reverent was all that was needed for us to connect. Her kindness was repeated when I accidentally left my phone in her car when she dropped me off. After realizing it, I assumed I'd be taking a bus to her house that evening to pick it up, but when she found it , she drove back, parked her car and walked back and forth between where she dropped me off and where she last saw me (she didn't have my address). When I realized it was gone, my computer told me where it was and I went back and there she was, pacing the sidewalk, looking around. I thanked her profusely and she again acted in such a matter of face way, as though it was no big deal. What a lovely person. Today I woke up to another beautiful day, making it an easy decision to blow off the gym and project that may turn into a business (more on that once the candle is lit), and so off I went on the 51 bus to Gare St. Charles in Marseille. I'd been waiting for a couple of months for a nice day to use my FREE bus pass to take a FREE ride to one of the islands or harbors in Marseille, figuring I'd decide where to go based on which boat was leaving first. I was shocked to find out that I'd have to pay, and that the boat to the Chateau d'If was full and the one to l"Estaque only ran in summer. So after a few minutes of deliberation under the Anish Kapoor at the Vieux Port, I toddled on over to La Joliette and got on the did I mention FREE? 35 bus to l'Estaque, which is a village that is part of Marseille, but is 11k away from Vieux Port. It followed the coast west, past the Corsica ferry and cruise ship terminals, shipyards, loading areas and dockyards. It was a fascinating ride that stopped me in this funny little village that is technically part of Marseille, but has the feel of a small town with a harbor.  Anish, providing shelter and a place to re-jigger the day The first thing I saw upon disembarking was a film crew and the second was the stand below, which had a long line, of course compelling me to join, doing as the Romans do. A long time ago when the cupcake craze had just started, Debbie and I were sitting on a bench in the West Village and noticed a really long line, which we felt compelled to join It was perhaps 20 minutes before we reached the original Magnolia Cupcakes (we'd never heard of them). Because we'd been waiting so long, we bought four. They were terrible. We'd take a bit and then angrily throw them on the ground, much to the cheer of nearby pigeons who no doubt died of hypertension. Back to the story, which turned out slightly better. Chichis are very Marseillaise and I'm going to guess that HQ is in l'Estaque because I've only seen one place in the main downtown and there were many shacks here. But Chez Magalie was clearly The One. Most people were ordering sweet chichis with Nutella or powdered sugar, but I ordered plain with harissa on the side, then headed across the street to sit and enjoy them while looking out over the harbor and Mediterranean. After quickly spilling the harissa on the sidewalk, I burned my mouth repeatedly but had no thought to slow down as letting them get cold seemed blasphemous. They're made out of semolina, water and salt, are soft in the middle and crispy deep-fried on the outside, delicious.  The OG place in the OG part of town for chichis  My chichis before the harissa tragedy. Love the packaging. It's a funny place that, like Marseille, is undefinable. Part pleasure boat harbor, part ratty old town with old men in black sitting at cafes, part scenic French town on a hill, part big boat repair place, part arid, rocky place that seems no one could live in, yet many do. There were a lot of 30- somethings with a hippie/artist vibe, but then there was the very nice old lady who had just climbed the hill with her groceries, asking me what it was about her house that made me want to take its photographs. She was confused and entertained at the same time.  This was the photo I took of the old lady's house  Fishing Tribunal and Dye Works. Hmmm  Pawetty houses, well looked after, but there was never a feeling of preciousness  Odd mixture of big rocks and sea, somehow confusing to me  Sweet little hippiness  I can't describe how much I love this
It was a lovely day and on the bus home, I thought about what Julia Cameron says that is easy to forget. Treating yourself like a precious object will make you strong. And so I was inspired to come home and write after this most perfect day, adding to my current state of bliss. *Sometimes late night or early morning revelers voices waft in, disturbing my sleep. I've rarely heard yelling, aggression or anger, rather, it is usually laughter and fairly regularly, singing. I so love this and find it equal pay for being woken up, which never lasts long.
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 Somewhere between Sidi Ifni and Tazougart One day, we borrowed Maria and Eberhardt's UN approved outfitted for the desert Landcruiser, which had at one time been Joyce's, to take a trip inland to an abandoned fort. We drove south along the Atlantic for a little less than an hour and then took a left, leaving the greener hills along with literally any sign of human life aside from the paved road. It's happened enough times now that I know to expect some kind of mystical experience when on land that is so devoid of humans and buildings, with only sky and a very very long horizon. It didn't hurt that the sun was out and that the windiness of the road, going up and down canyons, had a certain beauty of its own.  Road to Tazougart What awaited us was an adobe fort, built in 1935 by the French Foreign Legion, then abandoned whenever ti was that their business took them elsewhere. It was hard to imagine what natural resources, in this usually arid land with little sign of life, needed military protection, and while there was talk that it was put there to quell local unrest, it seems a bit bazooka for a mosquito in its scale. Nevertheless, there it was. As we got out of the car, Joyce said in passing "oh, mind for the snakes, I've heard they like it here" which sent me into a twister, but I let the two of them, who seem unperturbed, go first and kept eyes open in the front, back and side of my head. Like much of the building in Morocco, it's adobe, which needs to be kept up every year, or it starts to fall apart, resulting in this case in a haunted old place in the middle of nowhere, with nary another creature in sight.  French Foreign Legion abandoned fort, from afar  Who could have possibly attacked?? Joyce had made a reservation for lunch, which one has to do in order for the purveyors to have enough advance warning to drive the 40 minutes to Guelmim for ingredients, It seemed an absurd place for a reserved lunch, but it turns out that the road leads onto the Sahara and Mauritania and is a big stop for motor cyclers. As it was only a couple of kilometers from the fort, I decided to walk, and was rewarded with a feeling of being alone in this peaceful, untouched and unfamiliar land, shared only with a few sheep up on a hillside in the distance, baaing away. Sure enough, there was a lodge, our table was set with a beautiful vegetable tagine, followed by another composed of fruit.  *****  Vegetable tagine with homemade bread  Fruit tagine  A shack where some of us took a postprandial nap. I couldn't stop humming to myself "Midnight at the Oasis" as sung in Waiting for Guffman auditions Our next adventure took us northeast, about a 4 hour drive to the high desert (appx 1500 metres). For much of the drive it was cloudy or misty, but we were able to see green valleys and up in the mountains, graduated ledges that evoked tea plantations (I have no idea why I even have an image of these as I've never seen one), but as it turns out, were built to grow almond trees, which are no longer a local crop because they're too expensive to maintain. At the market in Tafraoute, we actually saw a bulk bag of almonds that said "California, USA" on it. We stayed at a cool place called El Malara, conceived, built and run by a couple who are French and Belgian, just outside of town. It was sort of a box canyon, like Telluride is a box canyon, only pretty different from Telluride. Mountains surround the area on all but one side, but there we were in the middle of a desert, argan trees and whatever the plant is that makes tumbleweeds were the only things that flourished . There were also huge rocks, and not much else. Again, the best part for me was walking out onto this sandy road at different times of the day with no other creature in evidence, feeling the silent majesty of the earth. There's something so reassuring about understanding how incredibly puny we all are.  Town of Tafraoute  The "road" from our "hotel" where I walked at all times of the day  Ruins along the road. ASo many of these rocks that looked like a giant had been playing a dice game, throwing them hither and yon.  We're talking dry One day I walked to one of two attractions, the painted rocks. A Belgian artist had painted them in the 60s, which to me seemed a bit presumptuous as I believe the Christos only ever put up temporary signs of human intervention. In any case, locals thought "well if a little is good, more is better", which turned out to absolutely not be true.  Painted Rocks to the left, end of the world to the right  Too many photos, but ugh, it was such a good place  Painted rocks. As my mother would have said "Not my best" The next day, we went to town for a browse and a long sit at an outdoor lunch spot while we watched the proprietors first take our order, then scamper, well actually there was nothing rushed about it at all, across the street to the grocery store, buy the ingredients for our tagines, come back and make them. It was a good hour before they appeared but it was spent watching locals come and go, a seriously brisk business at the olive stall.  From when our lunch originated We decided to try and find the traditional Berber house, where Joyce had been before, and after driving through some beautifully manicured oases, found our way to this house up on a rocky hill. The Berbers would keep the animals on the ground floor, creating heat that would rise up. There would be a hole somewhere for humans to send down all food refuse to the animals, the way this family lived until fairly recently. When the father passed away a few years ago, the son inherited the house (he must be in his late fifties) and decided to build a lodging nearby where he now lives. He continues to keep his old house open for people to visit, and gave us a warm welcome, making us tea with absinthe, showing us around and towards the end, playing his banjo, both a western and then Berber song about losing a mother. We felt so honored to be his guests.  This guy's Berber house, as you can tell, on a small creek  Implements used until very recently  Grinding  I want this to be my living room  Our Berber host  The Moroccan and Berber flag. Blue represents the sea, green the mountains, yellow the desert and the red letter, freedom  Bench for waiting parents, outside the elementary school  Just one offering on this visual smorgasbord And then it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig, with a stop in Tiznit as it was Friday, and as anyone knows, Friday is mosque day so it's couscous day. It's set to cook early before services, and then when they're over, it's ready and everyone sits down to eat together. We stopped in a funky place in the Tiznit Medina and had a fish couscous, which was delicious  On the way to the couscous restaurant, Tiznit  Me in the bathroom at our restaurant in Tiznit
And then, we were back in Sidi Ifni for a bit. The day prior to our departure, we drove to Taroudant because Jacques Chirac used to spend his Christmases there, so the King built a good road from the town to the Agadir airport, making it a convenient stop before our morning flight. And so it was over and out for Morocco, with a much much better flavor in my mouth than last time. Thank you, Joyce, you were right. What a pleasure it was to be in places that weren't overrun by the likes of me!  Town Hall, Sidi Ifni One of the things I love about going to new places is the assault to my senses, which can get a bit lazy, even in a place like Aix. It's a luxury that reminds me how big and beautifully varied the world is. That those experiences are stored in me, coming back around for a visit when I'm washing a dish or scratching my leg is a gift like no other. Sensory images visit unbidden but welcome; the sometimes melodic, sometimes too loud Call to Prayer, pungent ras-al-hanout at the market, the smell of tagines cooking mid-morning in the neighborhood where there was no one on the street, small, dark people bending over in the rocks looking for sea urchins, melodic Arabic perfectly matching the calligraphy, passed back and forth between sun-grizzled men in well-worn djellabas and shower shoes. Just for a second I am there.  I can too read Arabic. This says STOP. It was Sidi Ifni because Joyce used to live there and needed to show me that not all Morocco is like Marrakesh. After flying into Agadir, it was a fascinating three-hour drive south on the last day of. school vacation, where families parked their cars in the middle of a scrappy field, put up sheets to block the wind, built fires and cooked their tagines while the kids played ball (sometimes the moms played too in their long robes). Challenging my expectations of a Moroccan desert, it was misty and green, a meteorological aberration, the result of this lousy cloud that's been over the whole Mediterranean for the last month or two. As we continued south, there was the bluey grey Atlantic with big waves on the right and bright green hills on the left, often with stony walls and sheep, reminding me of what I imagine Ireland to be, and sometimes when going through red cliffs reminiscent of the Isle of Wight. It was all very confusing because there were palm trees and there were Berbers with their heads covered up.  This was the sea vibe  And this, near my favorite cafe Sidi Ifni is a town that is in what was once part of the Spanish part of Morocco, and it has a feeling of having been forgotten, or left in about 1930. There are grand buildings and for the most part, they're a little run down, but still beautiful. The town is made up of apparently many surfers later in the season, currently families of Moroccan and Berber heritage, a few European transplants and a posse of Northern Europeans living out their winters in their RVs on the beach. The rousing boule games and groups at cafes indicated a strong community. But really it's a local town and we were very much in the minority, unlike so many places that this old lady perceives as being taken over by annoying tourists like me.  The old Governor's House  Most of the residents are Muslim or Berber, but at one time, there was a big Christian presence, and this was the church  Apparently Franco's likeness once graced this pedestal  Sidi Ifni is very blue and white     As you know if you're a woman and have travelled in Muslim countries, it's not always comfortable. I brought long sleeved shirts and pants, but stupidly tighter shirts and well, sometimes it was too hot for a long sleeved shirt. But what is one to do? I am always of the mind of being one friendly human greeting another, but that doesn't always work, though most of the time it did. And things like going to get a coffee can be rife with uncertainty: "Hmmm, it's all men in djellabas with tea. If I sit down am I acknowledging that we're all just people having a beverage, or is there some societal nono I''m committing?" In the end, there was no reason for concern, everyone was accepting and for the most part, people were warm and welcoming. We had an airbnb that had an ensuite for each of us, a courtyard in the middle and plenty of roof action that included couches for lying under a pergola with views over rooftops and to the ocean. Through circumstances too complicated to explain, a woman named Aziza cooked for us, motivating me to go to Marseille tomorrow to buy a tagine. While she never learned how to read and actually didn't know hot to cook early on, she taught herself on Youtube, serving us tagines, salads, dips, home made bread, home made yogurt and jams, fish.  The lovely and talented Aziza  Aziza's tagine. Leeks, tomatoes, haricot vert, fava beans, turnip, potato, prune, walnut and lemon.  Fish delish Three of us travelled there together, which worked out well. I had known Valerie since last year when I was here, though we had only ever had a couple of meals together. She has lived in many different parts of the world, and as someone who was able to retire early and has a daughter in college, she has been taking advantage of her status, zipping here and there. Joyce, as mentioned, lived in Sidi Ifni, and likes to return once a year to see her friends and visit a place she loves. I was a bit of a hanger on, doing my own thing and wandering extensively, along the beach, into neighborhoods, across fields, up and down hills, in cafes and many "stores". There were plenty of reminders of how much we as Americans have. As Patrick, a French man who picked me up a the airport said, "their clothes are your cast-offs". There is a big weekly market in a field that was once a landing strip, and there you see people putting out their tarps with conventional things like different kinds of food, household products or rugs, but there were also some with appliance parts, car parts, very used shoes and clothes, bottles. And yes, plenty of new Chinese crap. But in general, it was a very special place to spend a few days, with kind and gentle people and a quiet and relaxing way of life. We took two road trips, which I'll talk about next time.  Larger than average truck, approximate age of many  Firewood that the neighbors would come and buy. Every day the owner would bring it out and take it back in.  Well worn throne  Weekly market  All the onions I saw were red  Other good colors aside from blue and white    Love this combination of colors
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AuthorAnna Asphar is a nonprofit search consultant by day, but is certainly a work to live sort (don't get her started on work/life balance). She lives in Boston and Aix-en-Provence and enjoys writing about and photographing whatever pursuits are in progress. Archives
March 2026
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