- Published on
Cours Mirabeau, Aix, on the way to the bus stop, 6:30 on a misty morning
Nice was always appearing, but never making the top of my list of places to go next. I had imagined, at some point, driving over the Menton line to Italy for lunch one day, then on the way back taking a few days to see places old and new, which might include Nice. But then Anna2, as someone else named her, mentioned there was a massive brocante every Monday and while I'm not in the market for anything, Mondays can be dull days anyway, so a plan began to form.
Hotels, if priced correctly for this pensioner, are appealing right now, as they're more flexible about arrival and departure times, not to mention, holding luggage. I wish I were more like my very well-traveled and resourceful friend who will walk into any hotel, whether she's staying there or not, and ask them to hold her luggage, but alas, I imagine being yelled at in French for my audacity. So my modus operandi was to check Priceline to get a lay of the land, then make a refundable reservation directly with a hotel. The day before, prices had decreased considerably, leading to a most satisfactory outcome at the Windsor Hotel, where I would stay again, if only to be able to ask for and drop off the room key, Wes Anderson style.
Speaking of pensioners, taking my first FlixBus brought about, I'm not going to lie, some agita that was really PTSD borne out of a mistakenly booked trip through Luton instead of Heathrow on Ryan Air instead of Air France. The many additional hours of travel and waiting were distressing, the four different kinds of conveyance exasperating, but finding out that Ryan Air has a different definition of carry-on size put me over the edge. I felt old and stupid, as though the rules were changing under my nose and I couldn't quite keep up. Although maybe a better analogy is that kid no one liked, who changed the rules of a game to suit himself, mid game. But FlixBux proved solid, the twenty somethings and I arrived at Nice airport without incident, and there's honestly not a bad thing even this grouchy old codger can say about the experience.
Wannas, my Tunisian Uber driver, pulled up minutes later, immediately earning himself a hefty tip by lying that my French was superb. A chatter for sure, every Tunisian I've ever met (all four of them) has been incredibly warm and friendly. Wannas told me that Nice was “top” and Ste. Paul was “top”, my new favorite French word, making his way to become my best friend until he started trashing Marseille, which brought about an awkward silence that we both forgot about after a minute. He dropped me at the top of a steep hill, textured with olive and conical cypress trees, eucalyptus, vineyards, large stucco houses with terra cotta roofs and swimming pools a color between Virgin Mary blue and a washed out green. Such a feast for the eyes.
Nice was always appearing, but never making the top of my list of places to go next. I had imagined, at some point, driving over the Menton line to Italy for lunch one day, then on the way back taking a few days to see places old and new, which might include Nice. But then Anna2, as someone else named her, mentioned there was a massive brocante every Monday and while I'm not in the market for anything, Mondays can be dull days anyway, so a plan began to form.
Hotels, if priced correctly for this pensioner, are appealing right now, as they're more flexible about arrival and departure times, not to mention, holding luggage. I wish I were more like my very well-traveled and resourceful friend who will walk into any hotel, whether she's staying there or not, and ask them to hold her luggage, but alas, I imagine being yelled at in French for my audacity. So my modus operandi was to check Priceline to get a lay of the land, then make a refundable reservation directly with a hotel. The day before, prices had decreased considerably, leading to a most satisfactory outcome at the Windsor Hotel, where I would stay again, if only to be able to ask for and drop off the room key, Wes Anderson style.
Speaking of pensioners, taking my first FlixBus brought about, I'm not going to lie, some agita that was really PTSD borne out of a mistakenly booked trip through Luton instead of Heathrow on Ryan Air instead of Air France. The many additional hours of travel and waiting were distressing, the four different kinds of conveyance exasperating, but finding out that Ryan Air has a different definition of carry-on size put me over the edge. I felt old and stupid, as though the rules were changing under my nose and I couldn't quite keep up. Although maybe a better analogy is that kid no one liked, who changed the rules of a game to suit himself, mid game. But FlixBux proved solid, the twenty somethings and I arrived at Nice airport without incident, and there's honestly not a bad thing even this grouchy old codger can say about the experience.
Wannas, my Tunisian Uber driver, pulled up minutes later, immediately earning himself a hefty tip by lying that my French was superb. A chatter for sure, every Tunisian I've ever met (all four of them) has been incredibly warm and friendly. Wannas told me that Nice was “top” and Ste. Paul was “top”, my new favorite French word, making his way to become my best friend until he started trashing Marseille, which brought about an awkward silence that we both forgot about after a minute. He dropped me at the top of a steep hill, textured with olive and conical cypress trees, eucalyptus, vineyards, large stucco houses with terra cotta roofs and swimming pools a color between Virgin Mary blue and a washed out green. Such a feast for the eyes.
View down from the hill adjoining Fondation Maeght, Ste. Paul
Have we had this chat about the Gardner Museum before? We may have, so feel free to skip this paragraph if it's starting to sound familiar. It was a wonderful place to be, led by a woman named Anne whom I was convinced channeled Mrs. Gardner. She had a white dog the size of a sweet potato that she’d sometimes hide in her large handbag, due to the “No Dogs” policy she had approved. Once, she sprinkled shiny stars and hearts over all of our desks after we’d left for the day, and another time asked a significant donor to fund milk and (homemade from the cafe) cookies every Friday for the staff. Late into my tenure, she got the leadership team latched on to this idea of the Program for Creativity, which would mirror Mrs Gardner’s salon, famous for gathering thinkers, painters, musicians, writers. After a painful amount of deliberation, an initial group was invited to converge for some weeks, all with a focus on chairs. Participants included the Eames grandsons, a talented but high maintenance South Asian photographer, an Italian curator of furniture and a documentary film maker. Perhaps there was someone else as well. The idea was to see what happened if they were left to their shared devices. At the end, there was talk about a film, which I never saw. High-maintenance photographer did make a small and beautiful accordion book on thick paper of black and white photographs of chairs and shadows. Hmm, what happened to that book? I bought one at what was at the time great expense. The other "creation" was that in the salon of the museum, the normally tidily pushed in chairs were left pulled away from the table, as though a meal had just ended and everyone had just left for the smoking room. Underwhelming, from my perspective. There may have been one other PFC, as we called it, that followed, but the initiative was put to bed as it proved too logistically challenging. How does a museum budget for a creative collaboration? How many security guards should be scheduled and when? How were important conservation guidelines communicated and ensured they were adhered to when a meeting might take place at 11:30 pm on a Sunday in the Courtyard where no one is supposed to be? So that was the end of a really lovely idea.
You'd be reasonable wondering why I'm going on about this. Well, to start with, I just finished reading a David Sedaris book, and if there's one writer who gives license to jumping from one seemingly unrelated topic to another, it's him. But the PFC was resident in my head for much of my visit to the spectacular Fondation Maeght, where Wannas had dropped me. Founded by a couple who lost their son (as had the Gardners), they were counseled to do something creative, so gathered artists you’ve heard of who were all living nearby, to have them collaborate on the design of the buildings, grounds, interior accessories and of course, create the art to give everything life. After the construction was finished, performers of different sorts came to use the space and during their lifetime, remained a vibrant creative community. I could easily imagine a group of them having a picnic on the construction site, lying on their sides with heads on hands, throwing ideas around after many bottles of rosé. The Maeght is a PFC that worked brilliantly. Perhaps necessary ingredients are an inexhaustible bank account, many good connections and a large dose of French sunshine. It was one of my favorite visits in a long long time, as much for the feeling of the group spirit as for the actual art.
Have we had this chat about the Gardner Museum before? We may have, so feel free to skip this paragraph if it's starting to sound familiar. It was a wonderful place to be, led by a woman named Anne whom I was convinced channeled Mrs. Gardner. She had a white dog the size of a sweet potato that she’d sometimes hide in her large handbag, due to the “No Dogs” policy she had approved. Once, she sprinkled shiny stars and hearts over all of our desks after we’d left for the day, and another time asked a significant donor to fund milk and (homemade from the cafe) cookies every Friday for the staff. Late into my tenure, she got the leadership team latched on to this idea of the Program for Creativity, which would mirror Mrs Gardner’s salon, famous for gathering thinkers, painters, musicians, writers. After a painful amount of deliberation, an initial group was invited to converge for some weeks, all with a focus on chairs. Participants included the Eames grandsons, a talented but high maintenance South Asian photographer, an Italian curator of furniture and a documentary film maker. Perhaps there was someone else as well. The idea was to see what happened if they were left to their shared devices. At the end, there was talk about a film, which I never saw. High-maintenance photographer did make a small and beautiful accordion book on thick paper of black and white photographs of chairs and shadows. Hmm, what happened to that book? I bought one at what was at the time great expense. The other "creation" was that in the salon of the museum, the normally tidily pushed in chairs were left pulled away from the table, as though a meal had just ended and everyone had just left for the smoking room. Underwhelming, from my perspective. There may have been one other PFC, as we called it, that followed, but the initiative was put to bed as it proved too logistically challenging. How does a museum budget for a creative collaboration? How many security guards should be scheduled and when? How were important conservation guidelines communicated and ensured they were adhered to when a meeting might take place at 11:30 pm on a Sunday in the Courtyard where no one is supposed to be? So that was the end of a really lovely idea.
You'd be reasonable wondering why I'm going on about this. Well, to start with, I just finished reading a David Sedaris book, and if there's one writer who gives license to jumping from one seemingly unrelated topic to another, it's him. But the PFC was resident in my head for much of my visit to the spectacular Fondation Maeght, where Wannas had dropped me. Founded by a couple who lost their son (as had the Gardners), they were counseled to do something creative, so gathered artists you’ve heard of who were all living nearby, to have them collaborate on the design of the buildings, grounds, interior accessories and of course, create the art to give everything life. After the construction was finished, performers of different sorts came to use the space and during their lifetime, remained a vibrant creative community. I could easily imagine a group of them having a picnic on the construction site, lying on their sides with heads on hands, throwing ideas around after many bottles of rosé. The Maeght is a PFC that worked brilliantly. Perhaps necessary ingredients are an inexhaustible bank account, many good connections and a large dose of French sunshine. It was one of my favorite visits in a long long time, as much for the feeling of the group spirit as for the actual art.
Entry courtyard, Fondation Maeght, Ste. Paul
Miro sculpture labrynth, Maeght, Ste. Paul
Miro labyrinth. There was a lot of Miro. Maeght, Ste. Paul
Giacometti door handles, Maeght, Ste. Paul
St. Bernard chapel, named for the Maeght's lost son. Chairs and some of the stations of the cross created by Braques
Oh gosh, I've forgotten who painted this but I love it. Maeght, Ste. Paul
Joan Mitchell, Maeght, Ste. Paul
Forgotten but love also . Maeght, Ste. Paul
Giacometti, lots of evidence of him. Maeght, Ste. Paul
I may be functionally incapable when in a new place, of following through on an original intention, distracted and pulled away as I do tend to get, but it often results in a nice surprise. But not always. Meaning to get on the bus to head back to the airport where I would switch to a train that would take me to the station at Nice Ville, I was lured by a hill I knew to be Ste. Paul-de-Vence not so far away, and being a bit peckish, was easily diverted. But after choosing a panini to order off the menu at an outdoor cafe and being barked at that paninis couldn't be ordered at the table and couldn't be eaten there (and this is March, imagine how acerbic he'll be in August!), I got a bad taste in my mouth which only got worse as I realized SP-d-V was yet another hilltop village with no soul, filled with restaurants and stores selling home goods. It made me think that maybe I shouldn't have been so appalled when in Tuscany, my sulky at the time 13- year old daughter whined "How many hills with churches are we going to go to?". Or as a lifetime Stockbridge resident said about his town, "I can't even buy a. hammer here." Aix is as far as I'm willing to go down that road.
I may be functionally incapable when in a new place, of following through on an original intention, distracted and pulled away as I do tend to get, but it often results in a nice surprise. But not always. Meaning to get on the bus to head back to the airport where I would switch to a train that would take me to the station at Nice Ville, I was lured by a hill I knew to be Ste. Paul-de-Vence not so far away, and being a bit peckish, was easily diverted. But after choosing a panini to order off the menu at an outdoor cafe and being barked at that paninis couldn't be ordered at the table and couldn't be eaten there (and this is March, imagine how acerbic he'll be in August!), I got a bad taste in my mouth which only got worse as I realized SP-d-V was yet another hilltop village with no soul, filled with restaurants and stores selling home goods. It made me think that maybe I shouldn't have been so appalled when in Tuscany, my sulky at the time 13- year old daughter whined "How many hills with churches are we going to go to?". Or as a lifetime Stockbridge resident said about his town, "I can't even buy a. hammer here." Aix is as far as I'm willing to go down that road.
Bar where I waited for my ToGo panini. I did enjoy its old school charm that included bottles at least 50 years old.
OK, the paving was nice too. Ste. Paul-de-Vence
And then it was on to the Massena neighborhood of Nice, which like the nice parts of the hostile bar in Ste. Paul-de-Vence, is old school. There were beautiful buildings, sometimes wide boulevards but also smaller streets, many of which had islands stretching the block, separating cars from bikes, and sporting every kind of lush tropical plant you can imagine. I love a palm tree and there were plenty, as well as lemon trees, in fact the day I arrived was the last of the two week Lemon Festival in nearby Menton, as well as the last day of Nice Carnaval, which judging from the barriers and amount of stadium seating, must have been a pretty big affair. Aix had its own, and it was sweet, going all out for the kids, with day long activities that included making hats, decorating hats, a bit of face painting and pirates roaming the crowd. As adults, we sat at a cafe and drank. My favorite part of Carnaval is the few days following, when even the super efficient street cleaners haven't yet been able to vacuum up all the confetti and you see little colored pieces of paper all over the ground.
And then it was on to the Massena neighborhood of Nice, which like the nice parts of the hostile bar in Ste. Paul-de-Vence, is old school. There were beautiful buildings, sometimes wide boulevards but also smaller streets, many of which had islands stretching the block, separating cars from bikes, and sporting every kind of lush tropical plant you can imagine. I love a palm tree and there were plenty, as well as lemon trees, in fact the day I arrived was the last of the two week Lemon Festival in nearby Menton, as well as the last day of Nice Carnaval, which judging from the barriers and amount of stadium seating, must have been a pretty big affair. Aix had its own, and it was sweet, going all out for the kids, with day long activities that included making hats, decorating hats, a bit of face painting and pirates roaming the crowd. As adults, we sat at a cafe and drank. My favorite part of Carnaval is the few days following, when even the super efficient street cleaners haven't yet been able to vacuum up all the confetti and you see little colored pieces of paper all over the ground.
Carnaval float, Moby Dick was the theme, Aix
An octopus that played music, Aix
Old school, Nice
I could live here, but I'd probably change those plantings in the front, Nice
This is the vibe in Nice, classic old places next to newer apartment buildings. It somehow works.
The brocante was interesting, as much for the populace as anything for sale, though there were many beautiful travel posters from the sixties I could have easily bought. There were a bunch of old and even older men who one could tell spent significant time there, engaging vendors who knew that nothing would come out of the transaction and had work to do. Others browsing, funny that it was almost all men, reminded me of a certain place in the US where spares, or second sons of families with many things to inherit, go to live their lives of financial ease and ennui, peppered with a mental or emotional challenge. I'm thinking specifically about a guy I saw at the brocante who had orange pants on, a wool olive green vest and white pressed shirt that my first husband, who certainly fits into that category, would have worn, hand made leather shoes, hair almost to his shoulders that had been colored from dark brown to an orangy color, flipped into a situation that had hairpins and reminded me of Guillermo Vilas in the 1970s. He had a small, brown poodle that he attended aggressively.
The brocante was interesting, as much for the populace as anything for sale, though there were many beautiful travel posters from the sixties I could have easily bought. There were a bunch of old and even older men who one could tell spent significant time there, engaging vendors who knew that nothing would come out of the transaction and had work to do. Others browsing, funny that it was almost all men, reminded me of a certain place in the US where spares, or second sons of families with many things to inherit, go to live their lives of financial ease and ennui, peppered with a mental or emotional challenge. I'm thinking specifically about a guy I saw at the brocante who had orange pants on, a wool olive green vest and white pressed shirt that my first husband, who certainly fits into that category, would have worn, hand made leather shoes, hair almost to his shoulders that had been colored from dark brown to an orangy color, flipped into a situation that had hairpins and reminded me of Guillermo Vilas in the 1970s. He had a small, brown poodle that he attended aggressively.
This is the best I can find in the archives, it was much weirder.
From there it was a climb up a steep hill to the Matisse Museum, which took me first to the Gardens of the Cimiez Monastery and then to the actual Monastery, both could not have been more beautiful or serene. The Matisse Museum was crowded with Italian students who, let's just say, weren't the quietest, and perhaps took away even less than I from the visit.
From there it was a climb up a steep hill to the Matisse Museum, which took me first to the Gardens of the Cimiez Monastery and then to the actual Monastery, both could not have been more beautiful or serene. The Matisse Museum was crowded with Italian students who, let's just say, weren't the quietest, and perhaps took away even less than I from the visit.
Steep march up to the Matisse Museum, Nice
Daffodils, the international herald of spring, Cimiez Gardens, Nice
Did you know that in Nice you can have lunch at a restaurant actually on the beach? A nice man in a white and blue striped T shirt brought me sardines, a little roll of French butter, some toasted baguette for the sardines, but dear to my heart, a brown bag of fresh baguette as well. Ordering a side green salad, I for some reason pictured one similar to what Pizzeria Uno might serve, in a brown bowl made to look like wood, with watery iceberg, pink tomatoes and white zinfandel dressing. What came was a ceramic bowl of the most recently picked greens, pungent olive oil and little else. The whole situation was heavenly, so I sat there on that beach thinking how incredibly lucky I was to be having the day I was having.
Did you know that in Nice you can have lunch at a restaurant actually on the beach? A nice man in a white and blue striped T shirt brought me sardines, a little roll of French butter, some toasted baguette for the sardines, but dear to my heart, a brown bag of fresh baguette as well. Ordering a side green salad, I for some reason pictured one similar to what Pizzeria Uno might serve, in a brown bowl made to look like wood, with watery iceberg, pink tomatoes and white zinfandel dressing. What came was a ceramic bowl of the most recently picked greens, pungent olive oil and little else. The whole situation was heavenly, so I sat there on that beach thinking how incredibly lucky I was to be having the day I was having.
Lunch sitch
Boardwalk life
On my last day, I walked down to the other end of the boardwalk and found the port, where French is not spoken and apparently all ex-pats live,. I also discovered the tourist nexus, a few alleys with ice cream shops and Lordy knows what else. It was a cluster. But right down on the harbor, I fell upon a grizzled man cutting up sea urchins, or orsins as they're called here. I have a memory of my father buying them for us when I was a child in Cassis, and while I've enjoyed them as uni in Japanese food, I'd not tried them out of the shell since way back. This man gave me 12, pointed to a curb with a low table, and there I sat with a small plastic spoon, scooping out their deliciousness. Would order them again in a heartbeat.
On my last day, I walked down to the other end of the boardwalk and found the port, where French is not spoken and apparently all ex-pats live,. I also discovered the tourist nexus, a few alleys with ice cream shops and Lordy knows what else. It was a cluster. But right down on the harbor, I fell upon a grizzled man cutting up sea urchins, or orsins as they're called here. I have a memory of my father buying them for us when I was a child in Cassis, and while I've enjoyed them as uni in Japanese food, I'd not tried them out of the shell since way back. This man gave me 12, pointed to a curb with a low table, and there I sat with a small plastic spoon, scooping out their deliciousness. Would order them again in a heartbeat.
Tastu lunch
True to form, I had moments when convinced that I should move to Nice, there was much more going on, it's more of a city but not quite as overwhelming as Marseille. And we all know I love a beach and a palm tree. But as always, despite it having been a great few days, as soon as I got off the bus and was back in Aix, my heart was happy.
True to form, I had moments when convinced that I should move to Nice, there was much more going on, it's more of a city but not quite as overwhelming as Marseille. And we all know I love a beach and a palm tree. But as always, despite it having been a great few days, as soon as I got off the bus and was back in Aix, my heart was happy.
Back home
- Published on
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....
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
- Published on
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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!
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!
- Published on
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
- Published on
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.
"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!".
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.
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
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).
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
- Published on
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.
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.
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.
Most treasured belonging
I'm beside myself with excitement about the free bus pass recently scored, having joined the legions of the "agee", as evidenced by my excitement about a frigging bus pass,. Should I change the name of this blog to Old People on Buses? When walking around the bus stations in Aix and Marseille, I'm like a kid with a loaded gift card at the toy store on the day after Christmas, looking at all the signs. I could go to Fuveau, Aubagne, Nice, Cassis, to Roque d'Anthéron, I can take the ferry to Isle d'If and Estanque and on and on and on. It's only been a couple of weeks, but I calculated I'd already saved enough money to rationalize buying a new Patagonia cozy (slightly flawed logic I may be known for).
So I'm essentially commuting to Marseille, having gone there so often that I had to ask the question: Why don't I live there? Marseille is NYC in the 80s, which I loved with.a passion but never wanted to make my home. The chaos of dusty storefronts, small shops with things you've never seen spilling out, brand new immigrants, graffiti, urine, rodentia. It's a place with so much going on and I love the city something fierce. Back in the mid-eighties, I felt the same way about Portland, Oregon. When I was getting ready to move there and talking to my family about it, one of them asked why Ohio? When I corrected them, they said "Ohio, Oregon, same difference" (remember the New Yorker map of NYC?), which it did seem at the time. Oregon was a backwater with not much more than the wood and paper industry (One of my temp jobs was in the Containerboard division at Boise Cascade), but the city was on the precipice of exploding. Like NYC in the 80s and Marseille now, real estate was cheap and there was a young population, allowing for experimentation and innovation with less financial risk. Craft breweries, serious coffee roasting, movie theaters that served craft beer and cocktails, 1920s jazz clubs, a non-smoking restaurant, under age dance clubs, bike sharing. Portlandia, you probably saw it (still one of my favorites, that man is a genius). Being in a city where everyone's experimenting, putting it out there, is infectious. So went to see a young and fun versions of the Barber of Seville at the Opera House one day, walked the whole Corniche another, went to a huge mall near the ferry boats that shuttle cars and humans around the Mediterranean, and met people for coffee. Such an exciting and gritty change from heartbreakingly beautiful and gentle and safe Aix, where I'm always happy to return.
I'm beside myself with excitement about the free bus pass recently scored, having joined the legions of the "agee", as evidenced by my excitement about a frigging bus pass,. Should I change the name of this blog to Old People on Buses? When walking around the bus stations in Aix and Marseille, I'm like a kid with a loaded gift card at the toy store on the day after Christmas, looking at all the signs. I could go to Fuveau, Aubagne, Nice, Cassis, to Roque d'Anthéron, I can take the ferry to Isle d'If and Estanque and on and on and on. It's only been a couple of weeks, but I calculated I'd already saved enough money to rationalize buying a new Patagonia cozy (slightly flawed logic I may be known for).
So I'm essentially commuting to Marseille, having gone there so often that I had to ask the question: Why don't I live there? Marseille is NYC in the 80s, which I loved with.a passion but never wanted to make my home. The chaos of dusty storefronts, small shops with things you've never seen spilling out, brand new immigrants, graffiti, urine, rodentia. It's a place with so much going on and I love the city something fierce. Back in the mid-eighties, I felt the same way about Portland, Oregon. When I was getting ready to move there and talking to my family about it, one of them asked why Ohio? When I corrected them, they said "Ohio, Oregon, same difference" (remember the New Yorker map of NYC?), which it did seem at the time. Oregon was a backwater with not much more than the wood and paper industry (One of my temp jobs was in the Containerboard division at Boise Cascade), but the city was on the precipice of exploding. Like NYC in the 80s and Marseille now, real estate was cheap and there was a young population, allowing for experimentation and innovation with less financial risk. Craft breweries, serious coffee roasting, movie theaters that served craft beer and cocktails, 1920s jazz clubs, a non-smoking restaurant, under age dance clubs, bike sharing. Portlandia, you probably saw it (still one of my favorites, that man is a genius). Being in a city where everyone's experimenting, putting it out there, is infectious. So went to see a young and fun versions of the Barber of Seville at the Opera House one day, walked the whole Corniche another, went to a huge mall near the ferry boats that shuttle cars and humans around the Mediterranean, and met people for coffee. Such an exciting and gritty change from heartbreakingly beautiful and gentle and safe Aix, where I'm always happy to return.
This store reminded me so much of the vibe in the Garment District in NYC, Marseille
Tunisian store, Marseille. It smells amazing
All different varieties of harissa, Tunisian store, Marseille
Lobby of the Opera House, which likely hasn't been renovated since the 60s, from the second balcony
It was sold out show and there were actually people sitting on the steps, lots of kids
Marseille is a serious working port. Large ferry to Corsica docked outside the Apple Store
View from the front seat of the upper level on the bus. Score., leaving Marseille
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.
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.
One poor man with all those women, the Wolf Pack
And then there's in-between city and country life, here in Aix.
And then there's in-between city and country life, here in Aix.
My neighbor. Want to go in, really don't like those super sweet desserts though
The Tapestry Museum, where I saw a photography exhibit that included some great photos of the inside of Roma houses and caravans
Round the corner. Commute from produce store to my apartment
Today's evening walk. Despite it snowing last night, spring is in the air