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.