Such a happy time; Jenn, KO, me and Laura at Les Roches Blanches

I have a friend who is rarely in one place, though when at home she is likely cooking a seriously delicious dinner for a gaggle of friends, or maybe hosting people at a weekend house. When away, she could be in another part of the country looking after a parent, flying to an obscure corner of the globe (corner?) for work, spending a week in the jungle with her family, or exploring a major metropolitan and very foreign city alone. I should mention that she has the kind of job with many relying on her to make decisions that have significant ramifications. Also, she's warm and kind, makes her own curtains, runs half marathons, speaks four languages fluently, plays the piano and is much better read than I. The only parallel we have is our equally bad performance in an escape room. Left to our own devices, we'd certainly die, hopefully quickly. 

And I'm worried about facing a significant emotional challenge by moving from France back to the US while not having worked for six months and only one quarter mastered one additional language??  I guess there's no good comparing apples to chairs here. While as kids, I was traumatized by unbridled and barefoot summers being upended y alarm clocks, regular bathing and disapproving teachers, she was likely admiring her new pencils after having done more than the required summer reading. Yes, I'm having that "first red leaf" feeling, a dread in the pit of my stomach, as leaving Aix looms.

Last week, three friends began a journey at the Monte Carlo tennis tournament, continued on to St. Tropez and then to Aix. To me their arrival felt like a harbinger of my departure, despite an excitement at the thought of spending time with them. But then here they were, on the patio of La Rotonde, only in Aix for an hour or so, settled in, talking, laughing, enjoying a Provencal rosé and watching the world go by. Any dread dissipated and not surprisngly, their company turned out to be the gift needed to banish any negative feelings and instead I was able to share my life and be reminded of all the good that awaited in Boston. 

These ladies have travelled together before, and it's evident, they are like seaweed in the ocean with each other, making room, flowing and bending as the currents come, each with their roles. Laura wants coffee early, always says yes and is busy observing, Jenn sleeps in and provides levity and warmth, KO is the mayor and on top of logistics and timetables, which is impressive with two lefties, if you know what I mean. We spent such a most perfect few days talking, wandering, hiking, getting lost, eating and seeing new things.  Our time flowed perfectly, then these fine people were off to Nice, Paris then Logan. It's thanks to them that this transition is nailed. 

Thanks, folks. Jenn, KO and Laura in front of their vestibule on their way out of town

The time coming to an end has motivated me to do all those things one puts off because there's so much time. 

One morning at the daily market, I overheard a woman telling a man that the market was too touristy and that anyone in their right mind would instead go to the Arab Market on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I did some investigatory work and eventually arrived there at the correct time and sure enough, there were between 20 and 25 stalls set up selling some similar produce, fish and olivy sorts of things, but more interesting were middle eastern grains, spices, sauces, robes, shoes, detergents, towels, etc. It was exciting to walk 20 minutes and be in another world without using a passport. 

The Museum Granet is always at the top of every tourist list in Aix, and one Sunday a month or so ago, I wandered into what I thought was the whole museum, exiting half an hour later, disappointed by the amalgam of Republic era statues, early civilization artifacts and very small collection of pre- and impressionist oil paintings that included a few Cezannes (the prodigal son of Aix). But the other day the mystery was solved as I discovered a second building a few blocks separated, holding a full collection given to the museum by a painter and art advisor named Jean Planque. In a beautifully renovated space that had been a church were many well laid out Picasso paintings, as well as those by Dufy, Van Gogh, Dubuffet, Bonnard, Klee, Monet, Degas, etc. It's a pretty special collection and for me was the perfect size. It made me realize I need to have my own Picasso in order to contemplate it regularly, which I know will lead to a better understanding and appreciation. It would hang either where I have breakfast or in the bathroom, preservation and conservation be damned.

Not quite as world class, but delightful, was the Museum of Old Aix, which took half an hour to go through, not because it wasn't compelling, but because it was small. Set in an Hotel de Ville, as the large old houses are called, it had a nice collection of mechanical sentons, or these little dolls, which are huge business here at Christmas time.  The museum is next door to another Hotel, which is prized for its dramatic staircase, which has walls illustrated with all the academic disciplines.  Also attended was the Tapestry Museum but the only kept me for 15 minutes, an odd mixture of the greyhound/hunt variety from way back when, and pink macrame. 

Door of church in Eguilles

​A bus visit to Eguilles gave me the gift of sitting in a tiny little church while the organ master perhaps rehearsed for Easter this Sunday, playing a riff over and over, humming along, not aware of my presence. It's a quiet and peaceful town up on a hill, looking out over the valley westwards. But not much to do there. On the way back, I saw one of those super super markets at the mall where the bus inspectors had jumped on and demanded my receipt, which I wasn't able to provide because I paid with my phone, so had to pay twice. After reading an email written by the food blogger David Leibovitz about how much the French love their monster supermarkets, I decided the next day to walk back to the dreaded location and check it out. It is perhaps larger, square footage wise, than Costco, and had an array of goods similar to that of a large Target, though with significantly more fresh food and better looking prepared food. Overwhelmed, I bought some Milka Easter eggs and apero crackers with conte, and headed on home.  

Dove Update:  The dove (ok, she might be a pigeon, turns out there's no difference, but I like to think of her as a dove. She makes such a soothing sound) is in the nest outside my kitchen 24/7 now. At first her name was Pascal, but I've changed it to Solange, we have become friends. (I later changed her name again to Camilla, which stuck). After a few windy days, I've learned she's not alarmed by shutters banging, nor my movements nearby. Research tells me that her likely two eggs (she actually had three healthy babies that I watched her feed by regurgitating food for them) will hatch in about another week and a half.  If you're curious as I was about fertilization happens, here is what I found out. The male mounts the female from behind while fluttering his wings for balance and support. In this position, their cloacas come into contact with one another in what appears as a gentle kiss—a momentary joining that facilitates sexual reproduction.

I imagine other people noticing me the way I notice them, wondering whether it means I'm, for example, cautiously optimistic when wearing my pink sneakers

Marianne, whom I once joked about as my best friend because she'd invited me out for coffee for half an hour is now a real friend. as well as continuing to act as an agent between me and the lawyer who owns 2 Rue Jaubert. Going off Airbnb meant the owner creating a detailed lease in French, which I had to translate and review, with a few back and forths. It was signed and initialed with much ceremony, money was wired. That I extended my stay meant we had to do it again, and again, I used every neuron to make sure things were right and that I was dotting all my Is. .When Marianne and I met at Cafe Wiebel, her dog sitting on our feet,  to sign, she asked if I had a pen, which I didn't, so, rather than asking a waitress if we could borrow one, she simply threw a folded up copy on the table, said "ça ne fais rien" and got back to telling me about her trip to Paris. 

There are atmospherically appropriate musicians who play during the markets, or sometimes on a seemingly random afternoon, providing sounds that seem to merge perfectly with the trickling fountains and mellow voices that bounce off the stone building facades. The most regular performers include a middle-aged lady of Asian descent who always wears a woolen headband covering her ears, making me wonder whether she can't fathom again listening to whatever song it is she's bringing into the mix. She sits very upright at her keyboard, reading the notes on an iPad. Her music fits the mood and weather well, usually a cross between classic light and pop.  She has a studiousness about her that I like, not appearing to notice what's going on around her, as though in her living room and not the Cours Mirabeau. (She made a liar out of me today, headbandless, playing March of the Sugarplum Fairy on a warm spring day).

There is the man who plays an inverted version of a steel drum, providing a mellow echoing that floats out from his central location, again, bouncing off buildings and the stone sidewalks and streets, weaving in with people's talking.  He invites the most attention from families with children, who are curious about what he is playing.  Recently, there's been a man with a Karaoke machine who doesn't have the gift of a good voice, making it all seem a bit of a joke, though from the intensity in his face, I'm guessing not. And there is the older man who plays his classical guitar slowly and pensively, painting the white and happy light of the Place de Prêcheurs, during the food market or on a sunny afternoon. Similar to the pianist, he doesn't appear to be performing, rather playing for himself, which I appreciate, being a tourist who's pretending she's not in a tourist town.  

Last week there were newcomers, a trio of good looking men in their early thirties, two of whom play guitars, one of the Les Paul sort, the tallest who stands in the middle has the clarinet and vocals. They play the kind of songs heard at Jay Gatsby's parties and are dressed as though they could attend. The most noticeable is the clarinetist/singer, who has Paul McCartney early Beatles hair, square aviator sunglasses, a wool suit in a large plaid, jacket stylishly small and pants not reaching his ankles. He wears no socks and shined black lace ups, though without laces, disappointing me to know it's all an illusion, though I tip my hat to their creativity. Their music is tight and original, his voice and clarinet merrily and  insistently cutting through the sounds of commerce,  their blaséness magnetic, attracting a crowd.

And while I like to support the musicians, there are others with whom it's more important I share my money. They tend to rest in the same places, though never on Sundays (a mystery I haven't yet solved). Like them, I have my places, my routes. There are three different ways to my gym. On the most scenic but longest, there is a middle-aged woman who appears North African, sitting on the steps to the post office bank ATM, who has a  begging look as she raises her big sad eyes to mine. Further along, there is the very dirty man who wears a ski jacket, has wild eyes and perches on the sill of the cathedral like a gargoyle. He often spits big gobs of something and I wonder if he times it for when I or others go by. When I go to put money in his dented paper cup, he always takes my hand and looks in my eyes with an intensity that connects me to him.  One time when he wasn't there, I left  small coins on his ledge, hoping he'd find them.  Further up the Rue Gaston de Saporta, at the corner where the ring road is, sits a younger woman, again likely of North African descent, who usually covers herself with a Korean blanket adorned with roses. She has a rather large box used to gather money, which may be optimistic.  Along another route is a man with a nice haircut and his aggressive looking dog who is usually scrolling on his phone. He sometimes has small things like a sandwich from a nearby store or a smoothie, cleaner clothes that tend to fit him, a nice looking tent and backpack. Sometimes he asks for money and sometimes he doesn't.  He may have had a turf war with a woman and her about ten year old daughter, who were once sitting very close to his spot next to the boulangerie known for making bread in the old-fashioned way. I gave her my change while standing in line outside, and no sooner had she received my coins, had her daughter got up from her lap and asked me for money for her as well. I had no more.

The woman I run into most appears older, perhaps 75. She doesn't have the small, finely chiseled body or face of most Aixoise,  rather a big head, wide cheekbones, blue eyes and beautiful wrinkles that are sometimes a bit covered up by the headscarf she wears tight, knot under her chin. She mostly sits on the steps of the Church of the Holy Spirit on Rue Espariat, the quickest route for me to the Rotonde. I have often worried about her as she may be too old to look after herself, but then last week, I was at one of the cafes on the Cours and up she came with her cup to our table, sturdy as an ox, reminding me of the time my mother at the age of 80, hauled a 25 kilo suitcase out of the trunk of her car with no apparent difficulty.  

While I don't believe anyone gave her money on the Cours, I've seen many instances of kindness by the people of Aix. Pastries and sandwiches being bought and given, old clothes left in strategic locations, physical assistance and lots of talking to and touching homeless people. Today, I saw a woman open up a Tupperware and put some macaroni on a paper plate and hand it to the gargoyle man. Yesterday, I was on a different route and saw a man I hadn't seen. Ahead of me, two women approached him, acknowledging they had been there the week prior and somehow figured out his shoe size. They had a brand new pair of black sneakers for him, that on my return trip, I noticed he was wearing. 

I spend time every morning writing in the kitchen as that is where the rooftops, contrails and rising sun like to be. Also there is a bush that when I arrived in December, was laden with berries. Over the winter, pigeons and doves have eaten most of them, at first easily, then much more gingerly, as they were forced to reach for harder to get berries, balancing on branches that weren't stiff enough to hold them, which produced lots of wing flapping and drama. The other day, I saw a dove with a stick in its beak and my eyes followed it to a nest in the bush, elated. The next morning, there was a dove sitting on the nest, perhaps a yard away from me. I stayed as still as possible for a very long time, not wanting to scare it. Its mate came, did some berry gathering, one by one, bringing them back to the nest. They swapped off sitting. Some time later, they were both perched on top of the nest, pecking, I imagined, the eggs, very exciting. Slowly and without jerky movements I walked out of the kitchen and did a few errands. when I returned, the nest was empty. I imagined they'd flown the coop, business done, though slightly worried I had scared them off. Then the next morning, there they were again, repeating, and the next afternoon, they were gone.  Another day of the same, I believe it's time to do a little research into why doves don't need to sit on their eggs all the time.

Some of the wisteria that's intoxicating us with its scent  

TECH UPDATE

I'm taking it as a blessing that my new website host is giving me more opportunities to keep the neurons firing, I recently figured out that my posts aren't getting sent to subscribers. If I want them to do that, it costs a dumb amount of money, so you'll be getting an old school email from me with a link. Don't be shy about unsubscribing. Along those lines, I wrote a couple of posts from Marrakech which you probably didn't get. You can scroll down after this one to read. It was an intense four days.

Spring has taken center stage in Aix this week after poking around for the last few weeks. In fact last Tuesday at 11am, sitting t my cafe perch on Cours Mirabeau, I had sweat dripping down my back, which led me to notice the plane trees in bud down the promenade. So soon there will be an overhead canopy. Clever how the leaves come out and create shade at just the right time, isn't it?  There's a regular walk I do up to the Terrain des Peintres, which is at the top of a hill looking out over Mt. Ste. Victoire, where Cezanne apparently painted. When I was last there, the wisteria was about to burst, and it's now decorating the houses in that neighborhood, along with in many other nooks in and around Aix. Continuing my sunset walk, the olive trees were silvery green against a saturated and vibrant green grass with big yellow dandelions dancing about, going on for miles, and then it was through the meadow with ornamental cherry and apple blossoms, wild orchids and wild tiny tulips, the sound of pheasant. The thyme was blossoming in Salon-de-Provence today next to some small yellow flowers and dandelions, and there were irises in the banks next to the river, along with the first poppies.  

These sweet little daisies have been around for a while, but deserve to take a bow

The markets are reflecting the change of season as well. There's one vendor I love because I can tell it's a family and they only ever have one ore two things, and masses of them. In the winter it was chanterelle and morel mushrooms, walnuts, then it was artichokes, and now it's asparagus and strawberries, today adding raspberries.  While the asparagus are as thick as a nickel, they melt in your mouth and have so much flavor. Available almost every day, I'll buy 3 or 4 at a time and they don't mind at all. They are a cheerful and friendly lot. Today, when I asked if I could take a photograph of the white asparagus, which I've never really understood, he was hurt that I didn't want to take a photograph of him, so here's one of both, along with the strawberries I'm enjoying while I'm typing this. 

Carpentras strawberries are the bomb

Melons a little bigger than a softball have also been showing up, though I haven't bought one yet, as have all kinds of new cheese, little crotins no bigger than a thimble with mould on the outside. Can't wait to try them, and another, a young goat with a sprig of rosemary made by the dad of the organic vegetable seller.  Today, as well as buying from my friend above, I went to the condiment man and bought preserved lemons, harissa, capers and anchovies, forgot the tapenade, but I can always get it tomorrow.  There are a variety of prepared foods that are tempting but not cheap. The stall that gets the most attention has three huge paella dishes; one with a classic paella beautifully prepared containing shrimp and chicken, a boeuf bourgignon, and a stuffed squid in brown gravy. They also sell a very provencal lunch to go, a boiled potato, carrot and one other vegetable I can't remember with some very garlicky aioli.  There's middle eastern, African, Vietnamese, Armenian, prepared food from Brittany and Normandy, local wines, olive oil, tarts, eggs, bread, soaps, it just doesn't end.

The clothing markets are blooming just like the flowers. In winter, they were pale, with their 10€ fake wool sweaters, but now there are all manner of colors, many with bold prints and much cotton. Things have been purchased, though I'm not sure the one size fits all is a good long term solution. The vintage stores have also been abundant, as I get over my life long dislike of going into a store that has no other customers. Ice cream stores, creperies, cafes, waffle shops and sushi restaurants are all dusting off and opening up, getting ready for visitors. I love walking through when the market people are setting up in the morning, it's a s though they're preparing for a party. And it's sad seeing them breaking down and packing up, one never wants the fun to end. Not minutes after they've shipped out, the sweepers, vacuum cleaners and hoses are out in the squares, and soon after that, tables and chairs put out for a whole other interactive performance that lasts until the wee hours of the morning. It is a city in constant movement, always with an eye for maximum leisure. 

The other side of more markets is that it's getting a little crowded, both with more vendors and people visiting, admiring the local handiwork. The big items seem to be callisons (the diamond shaped almond sweet things that I don't really understand), madeleines (there must be a tiktok about the madeleine place because I've tried them and they're nothing special but even in the middle of winter there was always a long line) anything with lavender, striped Marseillaise shirts, olive wood, and smelly things - perfume, soap, candles. On any given day, you will see groups of people led by some bored sod, holding a stick in front of him or herself, taking turns looking at the sky and their phone.

Erica was kind enough to leave me with the MFK Fisher book about Aix, Two Towns in Provence, that some of you recommended. Fisher's passion for the city has helped me define mine, and I have taken such pleasure in details, perhaps also in part because I know I'll only be enjoying them for another month. I meet weekly to speak only French with a local woman named Carole who has become my friend.  After we'd had our apero last Tuesday, there was still that evening light that reflects so perfectly off the golden buildings here, so we took to roaming the streets and ended up in this square that I see everyone taking photographs of.  It's picturesque with buildings on three sides and a pretty fountain in the middle. Well, turns out that people were taking photographs because it used to be Aix' legalized red light district, the only visual sign remaining are the wrought iron balconies, which Carole pointed out to me. We had a good laugh. In French, of course.

. See upper balcony

I was lucky enough to have a visit from Brita, who lives in London. A landscape architect, she wanted to see a certain private garden in St. Etienne, so we got in our old lady outfits and headed northwest, stopping first in Lex Baux-de-Provence on a very windy day. It is a medieval town lucky enough to still have a ramming rod, though it's not clear to me what good it would be doing inside the gates. It also has a giant catapult that looked recently updated. There were views of the Rhone valley with olives and grapes on one side, swish swimming pools on the other. I was reminded of my usually grateful daughter, back in the awkward teenage years. We had been in Tuscany, perhaps not even a week, and she said "How many of these hill towns with churches are we going to have to visit?". which we laughed about forever, but you know what? She has a point. One of the problems is that they aren't places where people live anymore, they exist only for the likes of us, taking our panoramic photographs and having an overpriced café creme with a view. 

House/garden  we went to visit, this doesn't do it justice at all

On we went to St. Etienne, where we met with the owner of the house and garden, along with the young gardener who had implemented all Brita's friend's ideas. There is actually only one bit of lawn in an otherwise intoxicatingly natural setting, with pine trees on two sides up on a hill, a pasture and meadows. It was the sort of house I'd never be able to see had we not had these kind people to show us around.

Today I went to Salon-de-Provence because the google image of the town looked compelling enough for me to take the half hour bus ride. I looked up a hike, but when I got there, it turns out that it was along a highway and under high tension wire, so I ended up walking along a hydro electric canal. But it was still nice to be somewhere new and stretch my legs and be in the warm sun. As always, I was so happy to get back to Aix, reminding me of the feeling of putting on my favorite piece of clothing. There's somehow always a celebratory atmosphere. The light on the yellow buildings, and the way voices bounce off the stone, giving it a feeling of always being a low key cocktail party, continue to enchant me.