Aix, Winding down

Kid and me in Cassis

Feeling sheepish about not having written for a while, I was reminded of something David Sedaris, whom as you may know I respect greatly for his writing, said. He apparently revises obsessively, taking an hour on the one or two sentences in his "diaries", Theft by Finding and Carnival of Snackery. He noted that it didn't give him much time for the business of living that he wanted to write about. So perhaps a rationalization for creating content can be made? It has been a busy time.

Nat didn't bring quite as much North Sea meteorological sturm und drang her second time, though I did have reason to once carry an umbrella. We took a favorite evening walk that heads up to the Terrain des Peintres, where Cezanne painted, then down through the gated houses with crisply trimmed hedges, to the lane that wanders through olive groves shut in behind rusty but regal gates, then meadow which grows wilder, turn right onto the next lane with high grassy side banks that look English, down the hill through thorn bushes that smell like pepper and give out a feeling of damp, past poppies, wild irises and grape hyacinths (the ones I could identify, there were many others). After that it's the past the subsidized housing and down the hill to the university, the fountain where a man can be found who lets pigeons sit on his head, past the cocktail bar where Sandra and I enjoyed the number 7 with a large ice cube, mezcal, hot pepper and something else, to my most favorite Place de Precheurs where the light is perfect at any time of day and the magpies still sometimes squawk in the trees but not as much as in winter, and then right, past the Onglerie (nail salon), boulangerie that only old people patronize, home made macaron store that is most often empty, cat book shop, expensive shoe store, left past the men's clothing store where the proprietor dresses according to his whim, which can mean country lord about to go hunting, 1960s businessman, or even raffish skateboarder who didn't get the age limit memo. All of the walk, whether up on the hill looking at Mt. Ste. Victoire, in the trees where the doves sing, meadows, squares, bathed in doleful evening shadows that gently told us it would soon be time to say goodbye to the day. 

Despite our heathen tendencies, we celebrated Easter, peering into churches to see if there was as much drama as in Malta (there wasn't, though all the statues were covered in purple cloth) and laughing at the "Easter basket" I made Nat from a balsa strawberry container decorated with hulls which actually dry nicely. I hid some eggs in the apartment, but there was never time for a hunt, so weeks later they remain in their very obvious places for the next guest to find.  We decided to go to Cassis, picturing it desolate because it was a Sunday and a holiday, but couldn't have been more wrong. We spent a lot of time watching men diving from cliffs at the Calanques.  There was a group of four, one who never even took his shirt off, no way was he going in, two jumped in easily and the fourth, for about half an hour, would go close to the edge, look down, and then turn away. The mom part of me was sending him messages to not be peer pressured, and only do it if he wanted to. Eventually he did, then repeating with pride and zeal. There were another four in wet suits who weren't on the rocks, but closer to us, still with significant height above the water. They threw many rocks down to see where they landed, then all of a sudden, there were flips and back dives in the air.  Finally, there was the "old guy", who had a white pony tail and wore a wet suit. On the highest peak of all, he took demonstrated a most graceful swan dive. We wanted so much for him to repeat it, but the climb from the water to the top is not insignificant in bare feet. In fact one of the others wore socks, another slides while climbing. Through all of this, tourists boats and private yachts came into the cove, passengers egging the divers on.

Olive oil cake making, Nat style

The kid with the orange bathing suit was the one who took a while to jump. To the right of where they are, on the other side of the tree, you can see the higher point where the "old guy" swan dove.

A few days after Nat left, Sandra arrived, via Istanbul, happy to stop at a cafe for a drink before we'd dropped off her luggage. She insisted on not eating because she'd had three separate meals on her two flights, but it turns out that likely, one of them may have made her sick, so her first few days were hard, though she was a trooper, hugging the side of the couch and pulling herself up occasionally to have a look around at the neighborhood before she hunkered back down for a few more hours of sleep. After a few days of rest, it was off to Cassis for lunch at the harbor,  a nice walk over to the Calanques (no divers this time, it was a week day), and then a drink at Les Roches Blanches, where we discovered a room costs 800€ a night.

I had found out about a Challenger tournament at the Country Club Aixoise, and so one day we wandered over, convinced of our ability to be talent scouts in next lives. The second person we saw after arriving was Stan the Man practicing, one of my favorite players.  We later watched some up and comers, the most interesting a red headed Peruvian named Ignacio Buse, whom I later watched in the semis as he valiantly fought but eventually lost to Borna Coric, whom I rather liked until he spit a big glob right on the court, as well as repeatedly emptying his nose of whatever substance was in there, perhaps thinking it would help his forehand?  It was interesting being a spectator with French people, who talk incessantly, bring baguettes full of various things to ensure hunger will be kept at bay, and somehow feel it's OK to huff on their vapers to make a nasty strawberry smell reminiscent of a 1986 NYC cab. The club has the most beautiful red clay courts, as well as padel and squash, so in the fall, I'll be doing a little research. There were two 10 year old kids getting a lesson who were better than any I've ever seen at that age, playing with grace and confidence. Yup, talent scout.

One evening, we were walking past the movie theater and wondered about going. My French friend had told me that VO or VF meant with English subtitles, so when we saw the title How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies, we both wanted to jump in. We were a little confused when the movie began, in Thai, with French subtitles. I looked at Sandra and true to her nature, she didn't look concerned (she doesn't speak French), so we stayed. I followed quite easily, rather smug about the hours I'd spent "learning French" by watching the The Parisian Agency, a trashy reality show about a family of realtors who show zillion euro properties.  Well, we left the theater and Sandra pretty much had the gist of the plot, based on the faces of the actors. Oh well.  I later learned that the movie went viral after people posted videos of themselves crying while watching on social media. 

Mini Roland Garros, at the Country Club Aixois

Sandra made the instagram reel

Writing this more for me than you, Clery strawberries from Carpentras are at the top of a very high mountain.

Perhaps what Sandra will remember most is our adventure at a Moroccan hammam. OK, we decided one grey Sunday, let's go see what it's like, why not?  At least Sandra had been to some kind of spa/bath situation, I never had. Proud of our ability to anticipate needing dry underwear, we were confused by the nondescript building  that looks abandoned,  clashing ever so much with my vision of mosaic luxury, low lights, palm trees and fountains.  After buzzing ourselves in through a plexiglass door, we were asked a bunch of questions, to which we consistently answered  "oui", resulting in finding ourselves in a group un-dressing room which had Moroccan tea sets displayed that were only for show. We were told to take off everything but our underpants. I complied, Sandra the rebel left her sports bra on as well, and we toddled off into a room that was steamy and held two marble tables. We were pushed along to a more steamy room and then a third most steamy room. It was the size of a small living room, covered in beige tiles with about 10 sets of hot and cold water spigots, each set five feet from the next. Each had a stool and a bowl, and after a wordless and perfunctory demonstration by a topless big-boned North African woman, Sandra's bra was stripped off unceremoniously.  We applied savon noir and then hung out in the steam for a while. Not one to sit still, I took to playing with the water, soaping up and rinsing off, repeating. It reminded me of Nat's early days of doing business in the bathtub, and I must say I rather enjoyed it, while watching the other women who knew what they were doing.  After our final rinse, we moved backwards into the less steamy room and put algae all over ourselves, sitting with that for a while, then rinsed off, moving back to the room with the marble tables, where the bra-stripper rubbed us down with what felt like coarse sandpaper, then told to stand up, hosing us down like a piece of lawn furniture left out all winter. The final step was lying on a massage table in a dark room and having oil rubbed all over our skin, which made up for some of the indignities. What was at first a little off-putting by the end had a communal feel of women bathing together without fuss, in an oddly spiritual way. ​Next time, I'll know to bring what others brought: flip flops, towels, combs, shampoo, razors, drinking water, etc.  The couscous and vegetables we had seen on their website proved no more real than the tea in the un-dressing room, so we marched on back to the Cours and ate like fiends, then went in for naps.  

Savon noir is a great moisturizer, bought some today.

My French friend Carole, with whom I share a love of discovering new places, had for a while planned a day for us, which we were only able to execute recently. After having packed up all the stuff that's staying in Aix and handing my suitcases over to the young, kind Australian friends who will babysit them for the summer, Carole picked me up on the ring road. We got to chatting, missing our exit, resulting in a circuitous but beautiful route through alternating fields of bright green wheat, psychedelic red poppies and yellow something or others. The trees were all abloom still, so there were smells in the air, and that feeling of so much beauty it must be a movie. Broken down old farm houses, pretty little towns with only a boulangerie and a cafe and sometimes big castles in the background.

Julia and  her friend Kyle, the kind Aussies who took my stuff. He is visiting from Zambia.

Lac de Sainte-Croix

Our first stop was Lac de Sainte-Croix, which I kept on thinking must have been artificial because of its color (it isn't). It was so tempting to join the paddle boat fun, but we had other places to visit, so we continued on. Driving up and up and up, lots of zigzagging, we eventually stopped, according to Wikipedia, 6300 feet above sea-level, to look down on a gorge that feeds into the beautiful lake above.  We pulled out our picnic of baguette, comté, tomme de brebis, beets, olives and artichoke tapenade and had a feast, watching some raptors catching air currents, jealous of the way they can do it and be kings of all they survey. Carole, who doesn't love a height, was brave for looking over, and kind for taking me there.  We finished off the day with a visit to Moustieres-Sainte-Marie, a little hill town that has a church at the top, which you can climb up to (we didn't because we were wearing clothing that was already making us too warm), giving a view of the lake on one side, valleys and plateaus on the other. 

Where the gorge meets the lake. There were lots of rock climbers doing some crazy shit.

Lunch spot, La Palud-sur-Verdon

View from La Palud. If you squint, you can see a snow covered peak on the left.

Dear and earnest flowers we saw along the way

Church at the top of the hill, Mouistieres. If you look closely at the sky between the church and the tree on the other side, you'll see a star, which is attached to a line on both sides, a sweet touch.

Inside of another church, Moustieres

Does this photograph convey how hot it was?

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Moustieres is known for this kind of painted porcelain
​

But it hasn't all been fun and games. I have been slowly immersing myself in French bureaucracy, a significant challenge for me even in my first language. To rent a place, I need a bank account. To get a bank account I need a lease. To get a lease, I need to rent a place. Mon Dieu!

The rental agent sent me to a bank, BNP Paribas.  They told me there's a 15,000€ minimum. I ask my French friend if that sounds right, she calls her bank, they laugh. Fortunately not everyone takes advantage of the gringos, so I met with Estelle at Credit Miutuel, and over the course of 45 minutes, managed to, (in French!) open an on-line account with no minimum.  At least that's what I think I did...  Next is preparing for the rental, which will require the following: Deed to my condo in Boston, real estate tax bill, personal and business tax returns, certificate of business, bank statements, electric bill, rental agreement with future tenant, passport. And then on top of that, I need to insure myself in case I don't pay rent. No wonder people smoke.

I'm off to Boston tomorrow for the summer, more to come, it's been an absolutely fabulous winter in a place I love with wonderful people visiting, which has made it even more special.

Estelle's desk at the bank