SPAGHETTI AGAINST THE WALL

 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. 

I believe this is a bell tower at the summit where we could see absolutely nothing. Enjoying my Mother's Day Mocha Joes bucket hat.

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.

Two colors of clay in their natural states

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Zen potter at work. Behind me are all the forms to which he refers for size and shape

His hands moved so gracefully. The bowl holding water is called a tian, after leaving I immediately regretted not buying one.

Finished product. He makes over 300 a day.

Finished product glazed, cooked and on display.

In the machine room, where large planter pots and urns are made, a plaster mold is put into something like a giant mixing bowl. The clay is put inside the mold and as it spins around, an apparatus with different attachments is lowered, again, resembling a giant Kitchen Aid, entering the clay and pushing out to the walls of the mold until it’s the perfect shape. It then dries in the mold and after some amount of time shrinks, then removed easily. The same process is used  for smaller things like the ochre and green plates etc in the photographs.

From there, things are either "finished", meaning cleaned up and sometimes texturized, or glazed. After that, they sit for 24 hours and are then put inside a low oven for another 24 to get all the moisture out, after which time they’re transferred to the uber oven that bakes them at 1800 (ok I could have that wrong between my with my relationship with accurate numbers is tenuous and my French large numbers iffy). 

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White molds in the background, recently formed pots in the foreground

Machine (with wheel) and attachments (under red cloth) that are affixed to make different shapes. A formed pot upside down is being finished, shavings are below.

Plates and things made in molds

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.

What a view

Loved this chapel turned into a meting room

This tiny cabin, situated in the middle of a vineyard,  can be rented for the night.

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Various things put up, the fancy-ass restaurant

Love the sense of humor and whimsy. This had been part of a shop display.

In the parking garage, done by JonOne, whom I guess I should have known about but hadn't. Love it

Lastly, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you about the strike that felt more like a tractor parade coming through Aix a few weeks back. About 40 farmers pulled up in their tractors, blocking roads and causing police and politicians to stand outside and wait for many hours, politicians with their bleu, blanc et rouge sashes on. It was all very peaceful, organized and supportive of the farmers, who are protesting the government proposing the allowance of produce from places like South America, where growers aren't held to the same strict standards enforced by the EU. They were mostly young and sweet kids, although there were some old grizzled smokers and breakfast wine drinkers too. The growth of produce happens so close to here that it really is a community issue, between having neighbors who are farmers and buying food at the markets from these "producteurs". France's reputation for high quality produce is on the line. We don't need no stinkin' tasteless strawberries from Chile.

French politics at work

Each tractor had the town they were from, all very nearby.