from Cassis, France: the everyday

Nino’s staff is already prepping lunch when we go to the dining room for breakfast. They leave us thermoses filled with coffee and hot chocolate and nod to our request for soft boiled eggs. We’re part of the morning wall-paper in their large work space.

The sun is out, of course, with a light dusting of cloud cover. The air is fresh, damp from yesterday’s rain (they’re still talking about it). Outside, the small cars roll up to the restaurants with deliveries. A cook turns heads of lettuce, inspects them, buys the whole lot. Sacks of baguettes rest on a chair.





I think I should always vacation over a restaurant. Working in one is too strenuous. Watching others fuss about food is deeply gratifying.

We set out again to find the wineries. With maps and instructions now. How tough can this be?

We pass by the port where a fisherman is selling sea urchins. I ask him how early he pulls in each morning. Sunrise, he says. What, six? He laughs. More like eight. Okay, I’ll watch for you tomorrow – I tell myself. Maybe.






Finally. We come to the first vineyard and Domaine on my list – Domaine Bagnol. It’s closed. Bummer. I thought I heard “open until noon.” It’s nowhere near that. And the next one is far. Double bummer.

We walk along the highway. How pathetic is that! But, we are car free and proud of it, so now we have to share space with speeding, belching motors.

After being rattled by trucks and cars, we approach the Domaine Fontcreuse. Truly an Ah! moment. It’s lovely here. I taste, I buy, just before Madame closes shop for lunch.
















The vineyard is mostly on the northern slope of the cliffs. Just below the mixed forest. So tempting to climb up and take it all in from above! And why not. Ed hides the box of wines in bushes and we climb up through wet branches, bramble and firs, in every conceivable shade of green, up a slippery, muddy trail until Ed tells me to give up. The summit is far, the climb is ridiculously hard.

I can’t I can’t – I say this now to express my desire to continue. He shrugs and waves me on. My boots are a mess, but it hardly matters. I should write here now that I was rewarded for my efforts with the most spectacular view, but life is not like that. I shout down “you were right!” to Ed and retreat.

Still, the forest scamper was worth it. I tell Ed – “inhale deeply!” “Why?” – he asks. “It’s good for you!” And I believe this. The scenery is pretty, but it is the fragrance here, in the forest, that makes your heart dance.

Through a combination of back lanes and some trespassing, we find a gentler way back to Cassis and even manage to locate someone at the first winery, where I purchase six, yes six bottles in radiant jubilation, just before their gates close for the day.





We pause for a snack at our favorite café – the little one, where you can spend many pleasant hours watching monsieur and madame fuss with coffees and chocolats while their dog keeps tabs on who is in, who is out.





Time, too, for one more trip to the pastry shop. A fraises des bois tart. Perfect.





And the circle is complete. We’re almost back at Nino’s. The port is dazzling in the evening light. Do you notice this if you live here?





At dinner, I pick all things local: a fish soup, a grilled scorpion (“the only Mediterranean fish on the menu!”), a crème brulée.













In the room above the restaurant, I think about making the various train connections to Paris the next day and I listen to the wind. It is wild again. Roaring in from the sea this time. I get up before dawn to watch the fishing boats come in, but I know there will be no boats to see. The waves are brutal.










It’s market day in Cassis and I go to the square to watch the sellers unload. My biggest envy may well be that they have this glorious market twice a week, year round.



















At Nino’s I pull Ed out of sleep so that we can have our last breakfast before the train takes us west, then north. Oh, and one more stroll. Just one more. We have time. You have to see the market and the pounding surf! – I say to him.


We watch moms take their little ones to the market and (mostly) men congregate at cafés, and I think this is the Cassis of everyday France.










When I asked Ed to come back with me for a return trip to France after the semester, he said – when you travel here, it’s like the same trip, over and over. But the regions – each time they’re different! New corners to explore! New hiking trails!

But he is right, to a degree. There is definitely a pattern. And predictability. And to a person who feels herself to be displaced and suspended, this is a welcome feeling.

We shake hands with Nino. We’ll see you again? I say this wistfully. We’ll always be here, he says. Yes, exactly. How wonderful.

from Cassis, France: make sure you point out that you lost your way and could find neither the wineries nor the b&b!

My occasional traveling companion tells me to note this on Ocean and what better way to highlight it than to put his directive in the subject line!


Well, it rained.





I knew it would and so we moved slowly all morning long. Nino’s was on break and no one wanted to come in just to fix us breakfast, so we headed to a café in the heart of Cassis, where we ate the biggest pain au chocolat ever. And watched locals come in, take an espresso and demonstrate great incredulity that it should rain.





After, I worked and Ed rested. It’s not unusual for us to find ourselves proceeding in this way.

And of course, when you are physically inactive, lunch is a welcome diversion. We head for a place right by Nino’s and find more than a dozen tables occupied by chomping French men and women. We joined them in one big national chomp, fondly referred to as le grand dejeuner francais. Ed and I both have salads, but we’re talking salads that spill over in their abundance. Mine, with seafood, is superb.





The plan for the afternoon is to search out the magnificent Cassis wineries. I have a terrific map listing them all, but you really need a car to get near most and, the drizzle notwithstanding, we are bent on walking. (I also want to check out a b&b for future visits. Nino’s room is beautiful, but he knows how to charge for this pristine oasis with views to die for. Especially in high season.)

I find neither the b&b nor the wineries, so in that sense, Ed is completely correct: we spent the better part of the afternoon being utterly lost in the stunning but wet Cassis countryside.

Yes, of course, I do locate the vineyards. And they are lovely.











I find gnarled vines to be graciously beautiful, sometimes reminding me of sage thinkers, sometimes, in their younger stage, of so many acrobats and dancers.












But as is often the case, the wineries and caves are away from the fields. Our country walk is invigorating, the garrigues (those fantastic stunted oak forests, interspersed with dense rosemary, lavender and thyme bushes – a combination found only in the limestone soils of this area of France) are fragrant in their wet state, but we come back tired and empty handed.


In the evening, we return to our lunch place for dinner. It is Monday, a common restaurant closure day and at any rate, we are by now without imagination.

Next to our table I hear, for the first time since coming to Cassis, spoken English. The couple is welcomed and kissed by the owners and staff, a curiously affectionate gesture, given that the couple appears to be absolutely loony. And I’m not just focusing on his pajama bottoms. They are indisputably the town eccentrics. Or rich and famous. Or both.

As the evening winds down, the dog of one of the French diners gets up, wanders a little, and lifts his leg. No one notices. Should I tattle? Of course. Monsieur, excusez moi, mais le chien a fait un petit pee-pee.

Ah oui. The waiter removes himself and discreetly brings back a bucket.

It is late. And still new people come in. A very wet threesome, obviously after a day at sea. Would you like a table on the verandah? No no! As far from the outside as possible!

The door opens and closes constantly. This is only the second week of the complete ban on smoking in bars and restaurants and I feel like I am in a new world, especially when in the tight quarters of small cafés. And amazingly, the smokers are observing the new law. They go outside. Waiters, proprietors and clients, pacing the quay, taking a few puffs then returning to their place.

A piece (three pieces actually) of cake and I’m satisfied. Body and soul, fully recovered.

from Cassis, France: Sunday frolic

If yesterday’s ramble put the lyrics of Blowin’ in the Wind in my head, today, I was thinking how catchy Ella is, especially in one little ditty about clean hair*.

As my occasional traveling companion Ed and I sit on a cliff top contemplating what has to be one of the loveliest tracks of limestone jutting out of azure waters…




…I say, in a moment of pure rapture:

Isn’t this the best traveling moment?
To which the ever non-rhapsodic gentleman responds: it’s okay, it’s pretty enough...
What could be better ? – I ask incredulously.
Adventuring, he tells me.
Thinking that yesterday’s brush with mortality qualified, I prod him to give me an example.
Maybe hitchhiking in South America? Or taking a little tiny sailboat down along the coast of Honduras, sleeping on the beach – he answers.

* If you laugh at different comics,
If you root for different teams,
Waste no time, weep no more,
Show him what the door is for…
I’m gonna wash that man right out of my tangled-by-le-mistral hair…

A reflective moment there, on a limestone ledge, as I bite into my baguette with cheese and tomato, thinking who could not place France at the top of a list of best places to visit?

Still, songs are one thing and life is another and so we pack up the baguette wrappings and trudge forward.


But let me go back to the beginning of the day. Because it is Sunday and I am in France. And no one knows better how to take the day off after a long(ish) week of work than the French.

I step outside and I am enthralled. The sun is brilliant, the air is calm and everyone, everyone is pouring out to the port of Cassis, greeting friends with kisses for the new year. Humanity convenes and expresses joy at being alive.

(Nino is not so appreciative. Must be the Italian blood in him. Give me American work ethic anytime, he tells me. I want to keep my restaurant open this evening, but I can’t. I have to give my staff time off. Restauranteurs, thank God, can employ someone 42 hours a week, not the standard 35, but after that, it’s double pay! And, in addition to all the calendar holidays, I have to give them five weeks vacation!)

In the late morning, the cafes are packed and the restaurants are setting tables outside. It may be January, it definitely is a cool day by their standards (it is in the mid fifties and they are bundled as if it were a Wisconsin deep freeze), but it is Sunday, by God, a day for family and friends and food. A day to be outside.




Still, a calm (nonwindy) day is one to be used wisely. After yesterday’s encounter with le mistral, I’m thinking we should grab this day by its gentle strings and head out toward les Calanques.

They’re not fjords, really. But they look like them: narrow inlets of water carved into the limestone by raging sea waters. A six hour hiking trail weaves its way up and down and all around so that you can get the perfect views.

(Signs everywhere warn that proper hiking shoes are “obligatoire!” and so I leave my snazzy French-like boots at Nino’s.)

We set out. And still I am tempted to stay put and do nothing. At the little town beach, the protective back wall keeps the air so toasty warm that a number of people are sunbathing in all forms of undress.





A January moment on the beach… Bliss…

But, I am certain that idle sunning is not Ed’s thing, so we trudge on.

The three Calanques are indeed stunning. The first, de Port-Miou, is used to moor sailboats. An old quarry (limestone, used, they say, for the building the Suez Canal) but now a protected natural site, it snakes for a while and then deadends at the edge of Cassis.





The second, de Port Pin, is especially coveted by families, out for a day in the country. An hour’s hike and you can unload your picnic right at the water’s edge while the kids let the water wet their toes.


















The third, d’en Vau, is the toughest to get to. With dramatic vertical cliffs dropping precipitously into the waters of the sea it can scare the daylights out of people like me, who cannot stand being close to slippery edges. So you get one photo. And just barely that.







It is hard to remember that even here, at the edge of Provence, it is winter. The bees are finding the rosemary buds without a problem, as if we were in the middle of August.





But the shorter day gives it away. By four, the sun is very low. The boats are returning to their resting stations. It's time to head back.





Back at the port, no one is ready to call it a day. The waiters balance trays of hot drinks, beer and wine...





...the conversation is even louder after a day well spent.


Most restaurants, like Nino's, are closed for the evening. Nearly everyone eats their big meal at midday. But there are those, like us, who have spent the day out in the country, who now want a dinner of simple, hearty Provencal foods. In Cassis, it's impossible not to eat well. And the wine... ah, the wine! A rosé and white wine lover's paradise. As I said, how can you not love France?

from Cassis, France: the wind

Like anyone, I have my share of terrors, but until this day, I have never registered any significant concern about the wind. I mean, where’s the harm in a breeze gently playing with the leaves and pine needles on a sunny day?

Today, I found myself clinging with panic to pine branches, wondering if I could make it just a few steps to safety.

It was only the second time ever that I found myself repeating over and over to Ed – I can’t I can’t I can’t… (the other time was in the Canadian Rockies, where I was convinced that one step would send me plummeting down a mountain side of loose rock).


The day starts out magnificently! The mistral (a wind that comes to Provence and the Cote d’Azur every now and then) pushed away the clouds, creating that clear crisp air that gives this region its magical, bold colors.

We are having a leisurely breakfast downstairs, enjoying the bustle of the kitchen staff at Nino’s as it prepares for the noon and evening meals. Our big hike to the “fjords” is for tomorrow. Today is a day for meandering along the eastern shores of the town. We tell Nino of our plans. He frowns. Le mistral – he say with a shake. The flags are out. You can’t go anywhere. It’s le mistral. It’ll drive you mad.

That seems a tad dramatic. We decide to look for a second opinion.

At the tourist office, madame seemed less concerned.
Can we walk up to the cliffs at the edge of town?
Well, it’s a long walk. Maybe a taxi to the trail?

(I think people regard Americans, or Americans our age, or Americans my age and my gender as frail.)

But the wind, is it okay to walk?
They will close the roads in the mountains if it gets to be too strong.

We take a bottle of water and set out. But after a few steps I want to turn back. Not because of le mistral, mind you.

Ed, I need to change to boots. The new ones that I purchased for the trip.
He stares at me with a complete lack of comprehension.
Look around you! Every single woman is wearing strikingly beautiful boots! I have some in the room…
For hiking??
It’ll be on solid surfaces mostly, wont it? And besides, mine are Madison sensible ones. Still, I’ll feel like I belong.

Our climb begins. At the beginning, it is wonderfully benign. We pass coves where waves crash with beautiful sprays of water…










…and hillsides with vines planted in terraced rows, spilling down to the sea.





But near the summit, as we pick up the footpath, we suddenly begin to feel and hear the force of the wind. Its rush across the planes and mountains of Provence sounds like an airplane engine. At times, as it careens toward the heathered cliffs, it's more like a firecracker. But it is fierce.

The road barricade is up and so it can’t be that bad, can it?

Peter Mayle wrote this about the mistral: (it is) a brutal, exhausting wind that can blow the ears off a donkey.

Ears off a donkey, cars off a road – how about tourists off a cliffside?

As we climb higher, we are whipped and pounded with such force that I utter my first series of “I can’t’s…”

Still, the views are compelling.









Sure, we are alone on the trail, but it is January. Who goes hiking in Cassis in January (in boots that will never, ever be the same)? The wind pushes us toward the mountain and so reason tells us that being blown off is not possible. But it’s finicky. Sometimes a gust will brush to the side and then I feel like it’s teasing me, coaxing me to the cliff’s edge so that it can deliver a final punch and push me over.






At other times, it is deceptively calm. Nothing more than a breeze. And I crawl (yes, crawl; I’m no fool – I will NOT stand up and be toppled by an angry French wind) within three feet of the edge (you cannot get me to a cliff’s edge even when it’s calm out there) and I feel it’s all worth it – the views are that good.





But as we continue along the trail, the wind picks up again and even though the edge is now ten feet away, I feel I am a mere dustball, about to be picked up and carried to the white-capped waters of the blue Mediterranean. I cling to the branches of a small pine and let Ed move forward without me.

We are on the mountain ridge. We see cliffs by the sea and the chalky mountains of Provence all the way to the north. I can hardly recall ever feeling so enthralled by a combination of water and land.






The afternoon light is changing and I am reminded that the day ends early. We turn back.

Along the port, the people of Cassis are milling about, enjoying the week-end sun, the camaraderie of their neighbors, the sweet treats of life in a coastal small town. We join them and as I contemplate which pastry should be the chosen one…





…and how much of the crepe Grand Marnier I should leave for Ed, I think to myself that the danger was completely imagined up there, on the cliffs.





I look outside of our Nino’s windows and I watch the sun leave strokes of orange and pink on the cliffs we had scaled and I think – how tame!



(view to the left: today's hike)




(view to the right: tomorrow's hike)


Still, when we sit down to a seafood Provencal dinner at Nino’s…





… I am not so sure. Our host tells us – le mistral, it can roll cars off the road.

The wind is dying down tonight. They say it has run its course. It is done for now.

Before falling asleep, I spend a good half hour untangling my hair. Ed on the other hand collapses instantly. You can't tell if his hair has been touched by the mistral -- it sort of always looks like this.