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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
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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.
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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