THE PEOPLE AND BIRDS OF AIX

Place de Prêcheurs, where I am known to spend time

When roaming around these days, MFK Fisher is by my side, encouraging me to notice small and important things. No longer do the myriad winding alleys and all they contain provide more than I can comprehend, allowing me the luxury of focusing on various people woven into the fabric of daily life here. 

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.

Grand staircase at one of the Hotels de Ville on the street that leads to my gym

Closeup of one of the fountains on a less traveled gym route

On one of the routes

On a winding side street

Inside of St. Jean de Malte church, on the Mazarin side of town, where I've never seen a homeless person

My morning writing sitch, overlooking  dove nursery

Empty nest