Sunday

Hello Kitty is making a comeback in France. It wasn't so obvious until I looked through my photos for the day. 



(at the Christmas Market in Aix en Provence)





(also at the Christmas Market)


When did that happen? What drew little girls yet again to that pouting cat face with the ribbon adornment somewhere near the cat ear?



(on the metro in Marseille)



What else have the French adopted as their own? The American Santa. He's everywhere, just as back home. Goodbye gaunt old man in blue robes who stood in for St Nick in the past. Hello jolly fat guy in red, who comes with reindeer and probably demands wine and cookies for his sleigh ride on Christmas Eve.



(at the Christmas Market in Aix en Provence)



And a clarification: no, it's not cold at all here, in southern France! During the day, it continues to be sunny and in the mid fifties. If Ed were here, he'd be in a t-shirt. I do not know why women and men alike are bundled as if ready for a blast of Arctic air. The French relationship with a scarf is, in any case, a complicated thing. True, a French person wears it magnificently, while we only wear it adequately, but surely that's because the French have more practice in knotting, flipping, twisting and tying the thing.



(on a sunny day in Aix en Provence)




(a scarf and a long coat, Aix en Provence)




(scarves and an accordion player, Aix en Provence)



And I should again affirm that dogs here are treated with the tenderness we reserve for newborns. Not a small number take their pooch out for a walk like this:



(in Aix en Provence)


Odile, my landlady, has three dogs (and one cat). Their beds are luxurious. Their lives -- without worry. Sometimes she has a stern word for one of them, but she doesn't mean it and they know it.






One last generalization, okay? The French people - they're an expressive lot. For instance, if we don't like conditions of work, we complain to colleagues who are equally positioned in the office hierarchy. When the French don't like conditions of work, they strike. Over the years, I've come to believe that conditions must be particularly disagreeable for city transportation workers because encountering a shutdown of city buses, for example, is not uncommon.

I've hit such a strike here, in Marseille. City buses haven't moved since I arrived here and though Odile checks each morning, so far there has been no progress.

For the most part, this doesn't affect me. I use the metro, which is in service and I walk. But in wanting to go a little outside the city, I need the bus.

This morning at breakfast, Odile is shaking her head again. Not today, she says, as she slices bread with figs and a Christmas cake, and puts out the traditional holiday sweet tray of figs and dates.











Well then I'll have to take the train. It's a limitation, but not an odious one. I can go, for example, to Aix en Provence.

Aix is to Marseille like Michael Bloomberg is to a Walmart employee.  If Marseille is poor (it is, in fact, France's poorest city), Aix is pompously not poor, even if it cloaks it these days by filling the crevices with student types: for a very small city of 150,000 it boasts three major universities. Other than on a Sunday in December, when all of French humanity pours into Aix to celebrate pre-Christmas, English is often heard on the streets. A number of American universities have exchange programs with Aix universities.

Shops in Aix are a mixture of Provence and Paris. One will have lovely linens, or jars of delicious olive tapinades, or boxes of those incredible melon-almond-honey cakes called Calissons...











...another will be a branch of something I'd expect only in the major cities of France and not in tiny Aix, which I can cross from one end to the next in the space of twenty minutes.


A dozen years ago I took a small group of Americans (strangers: they paid me to do this) to Provence and we stopped for the day in Aix. They liked it. I liked it. Okay, today I will go to Aix.

And so, right after breakfast, I run to the metro and run into the train station (I found on the Internet a 10:08 train and it is now 10:00) and people let me budge the line because they're not in such a hurry and then boom! I find out I'm at the wrong train station for that train.
11:05, you can go on the 11:05. Here's the ticket. That'll be 5.5 Euros (about $8).

So I have an hour to kill. I pace the station. I admire the view from the terrace.





That took all of five minutes. I pace some more and... what's this? Ah, the bus terminal. It should be empty. Why is there a bus with an Aix en Provence sign on it?
Are the buses running to Aix?
Yes. Today it's every twenty minutes. 5.5 Euros. Pay on the bus.

Would you sacrifice 5 Euro (spent on a train ticket) and hop on the waiting bus to gain an hour?

I hesitate, but only for a minute. To get there before the morning market shuts down, before the tourist office closes for lunch, before people hunker down for the biggest meal of the week in France (Sunday lunch) -- yes, it's worth it. But it's a waste -- an annoying one, because I wasn't thorough in checking all options from the get-go.  Ah well. I will most certainly use the train ticket on the return.

Alright. I'm in Aix. The skies are blue, the buildings are golden yellow, I'm charmed!







And I do catch the tail end of the market.






Ah yes, the French pooch.






And could it be? A mushroom stand! And yes, inside that jar, guarded with a vigilant eye are the riches of the Luberon forests: truffles.






I don't buy any. Not I nor anyone else back home gasps with pleasure at the sound of the word "truffle!" In fact, most of us have now grown to associate it with the dark chocolate candy that actually was made to resemble the real French mushroom that's hunted by pigs and men with sticks.
But it is a sort of a dreamy thing to be in southern France right at the incongruous moment when truffles are in season (early winter). And so I smile and smile and I am sure the guardian of the precious treasures thinks me to be somewhat batty or worse.


Other highlights? Well, there are the sun-dried tomatoes, which are really dired in the sun -- they have that much of it here.






And as I wander off into the side streets, I begin to think of lunch. Odile gave me a handful of addresses, but she warned me that she hadn't been at any of them for a year or more. One does look rather pretty.
No, c'est complet madame. We have no more tables left. 
I push it. Not even for one and if I come toward the end?
No madame. We are full.
I try a different tactic. What other place would you recommend then?

It's like asking the waiter for a food recommendation. Who knows what motivation is behind the words -- that one... you must eat that one!

Madame hesitates, but only for a minute. Go to "Just en Face." Right there, across the square.
I walk over and the waiter there puts me down for 1:45. Nina, okay, Nina. See you then, Nina.






This gives me plenty of time to window shop. And go back down to the Christmas Market. And back up again. And down again. And back again. The produce market has long packed up and moved on. They've washed the square where vendors once had tables loaded with foods. They've even put up other tables -- of restaurants on the square. A lot can happen in Aix in the space of two hours.



after the produce market




Aix has a scattering of attractive fountains




the main street (Mirebeau), set up this month for the Christmas Market




a favorite French kid activity at holiday fairs: bungee bouncing!


 It's 1:45. I'm at the restaurant. There is a line and I wait patiently to check in, but the waiter sees me and waves me over. Nina! This table for Nina! People step aside, I in my travel weary clothes and shoes and without a touch of lipstick (forgot, as usual) move forward.

French waiters can really make you feel special.

So who's eating here on this beautiful pre-holiday Sunday afternoon? It's a casual place. Paper place mats and chalk board menus. And still, it's the kind of restaurant where a couple comes in -- she looks to be about nine and a half months pregnant and he looks like he is sacrificing with her and therefore, with a sigh, ignoring the wine list. I don't quite see what she orders, but I know that he has the duck breast. His eyes trace the progression of the plate as the waiter sets it before him. He cuts it right away and peers intently to see if it's pink inside. He calls over the waiter. I'm curious:  not pink enough? Too pink? Too crisp around the edges?

Could you bring me some Camargue fleur de sel please? (Those special salt crystals -- remember? I spoke about them when in Slovenia --  that people sprinkle lovingly over their meats or salads.)

I mean, who back home would think that his meal would be more perfect, more complete if only he could have some delicate "flowers of salt" sprinkled on top his duck breast? I have brought back Camargue salt from near Marsaille, I have brought back Banyuls salt from near Sorede and no one ever uses it! Ed and I love our foods, but we would never think to reach for a very special Camargue or Banyuls (Indeed, I saw Ed once grab an old container that had the label of "popcorn salt" on it and I know it was salt and nothing more than that, but the image was all wrong. In any case, you can see how unfocused we are on issues of salt crystals back home.)


Myself, I order two of the small dishes -- a herring and a creamed cucumber. The herring is excellent, the creamed cucumbers are just okay. Heavy.






For a main course I pick what I think is a proper Sunday lunch dish -- stewed chicken (three small drumsticks) Provencal. Now that's really exquisite!






Dessert? I ask for suggestions (!). I'm offered an orange creme brulee. Perfect.






It's not an expensive meal by any means but it is intensely satisfying. It leaves we wondering if there is a place to take a Sunday afternoon nap. Retired people can get away with these things, no?

Instead, I walk out and move (much more slowly) in the direction of two Aix museums. Cezanne lived and painted here. It would be nice to see a little of his art.

There isn't a lot of Cezanne, but there is quite a lot of Picasso as the former collector was on good terms with the painter. So I finish the day with looking at art, moving at a snail's pace from one room to the next, from one museum to the other and now I really do feel that I have done enough here in this pretty little town of such great stateliness and warm hues.





Such a great day it was.

I catch one of the frequent evening trains back to Marseille.

snapshots

I eat breakfast with the other couple here, at Les Acanthes. They're French Canadian and so the conversation is in French, but everyone kindly translates for me the words and phrases that push the boundaries of my comprehension.

We talk for a while about yesterday's Mistral wind. Odile tells me it follows a three day pattern, so that when it comes roaring down on Provence (I am in the district of Provence), it stays for one, three, six, nine, or some other combination of three days. She said it was hell one year when it stayed for 21 days. People went nuts.
My mother tells the story that one day, her grandmother, dressed in the usual puffy long skirts of the day, was picked up by a gust of a Mistral! Up went the skirts and she soared with them a good many paces!

The Mistral brings with it many many good legends!

As we munch on croissants and breads with regional honeys and homemade jams...





...I ask Odile if this is her family home.
Yes it is. And my sister still lives in that half -- she gestures toward the other wing of the house. My mother also lived and died here. At 95 she would sit in the garden every day -- it was nice to see her stay at home until the very end.

They ask me what my plans are for the day (the other guests are tied to family activities -- they're visiting relatives in the area) and I tell them -- at least three things: the markets, the climb up to the Notre Dame de Garde, and a stroll through the old town.

You're walking up to Notre Dame? The church towers majestically over the city -- perched on top of a hill that juts out maybe 700 meters above the waters. Marseille is very hilly.
I like hills.
Odile shakes her head. Too steep. Some of them are too steep.
That's good! It keeps people moving!
Again she shakes her head. It's good for people between 20 and 60 -- not before and not after and certainly not if you have children. My oldest sister, when she got to be infirm, she never left the house because the walk up to it was to much for her to climb. 

How quickly every conversation eventually leads to age. And then to retirement. Or is it that every conversation in my mind simply plays out that way?


I leave them all to their third and fourth cup of coffee and walk down to the metro stop.

(Here's how blue the skies are today. And by the way, we had a one day Mistral. All is calm, all is bright now. No, no, it's not a crooked photo. It's their crooked chimney. With a lovely old owl weather vane.)






So, markets first. The fish one, at the waters edge, is hugely interesting, because it literally brings to the tables fish straight from the boats.  Many customers come up, pick up a few fish (some cleaned and gutted, others whole) and head home with them. The pleasures of living by the sea!











Then I turn into the belly of the city and head for a market that brings out, in my mind, the old Marseille. Here's where she is hiding!





Shoppers, vendors -- they represent the world out there! The shouts and exchanges carry up the street of produce stalls. At one point all the vendors let out a chorus of Ohhhhhhh! -- triggered by something one seller called out to them. I try to take a photo or two, but the crowds make it tough going. And twice I am gently nudged to watch my purse. (I do! But I suppose even keeping it under my jacket isn't enough. I transfer my wallet to a zipped pocket and proceed with my photos.) Grapes from Sicily, tangerines from Corsica.











Alright. So Marseille remains complicated. They say it is the only European city that is comfortable with a diverse demographic. It has never been without a diverse demographic and no one is surprised to see couples of mixed races and nationalities or families with children who resemble a mom or a dad or some relative who lives far away. And yet, you can go to most any restaurant along the water's edge and you wont see that same diversity there. It may be that the waterfront eateries are tourist places. I hear French, but it may be that it's not a Marseille French.






I begin the climb toward the Basilica. Let me first show you the building as it presents itself just before you take the last steps up to it:






The Basilica (or some portions of it) will be 800 years old in 2014. Like Sacre Coeur is to Paris, this is the emblematic church of Marseille. The views from the top of the hill are predictably grand. I watch two ferries pulling out of the newer port. One is going to Algiers. That can't be a short trip!



the entrances to the old port and, toward the rear -- to the new port




the Marseille hills




the islands


The typical older church is, in my opinion, severe inside. Not so this Basilica!






(With a distinct nod to the sea.)





Okay, follow me down now. Narrow streets, few people on them. The occasional shopper. In this case -- a father and son. With a Christmas tree.
















All the way down. To the old harbor again.





What is referred to as Old Marseille lies behind the second prong of the harbor's U shape. It's hilly here as well, but only slightly so.





I can tell that this is a frequent tourist destination. Not much of the grit remains here. Renovation and restoration have done wonders to Marseille's old face.






And here's a key building in this section of town: the old hospice for the poor and homeless.





I am a little unnerved that this building was to provide care and shelter for the homeless some 400 years ago. Here we are in 2014, stuck with the common cold and still inadequately addressing the problem of homelessness!


Back to the old harbor. It's nearly 2 p.m. and I'm tempted to sit down and eat at one of the many many waterfront restaurants. In fact, I do sit down at one. I look at the menu, I look at people's plates. I see shellfish, I see lobsters. No, this is wrong. The listed bouillabaise too is cooked to be a people pleaser: bouillabaise with langoustines. Bouillabaise with Atlantic lobster.

Bouillabaise -- a fisherman's stew -- is a Marseille invention. I'm obviously going to order it during my stay here. But let it be the fish soup that uses what I saw at the fish market this morning. None of this fancy import from other places, other oceans. For just this one time, let the bouillabaise speak Marseilleise! (It must, therefore, be served, with toasts and a rouille -- a mayonaise mixed with olive oil, garlic, and just a touch of cayenne and saffron.)

I sit down at another restaurant by the water. Not for long. For the second time, I get up and leave.

Finally, I go to a restaurant recommended by Odile: Les Arcenaulx. It doesn't have the sun-bathed waterfront tables. In fact, it's through this courtyard...





...and into a muted interior. The walls are lined with shelves of old books.  I'm given a good seat for observing the comings and goings of the people here. I'm guessing the woman in red (below) is the owner. Her family must be eating dinner at the big table to the side. The little girl was sent to get the after dinner coffee.





Closer to me, another woman sits alone. She's older than me and she knows a number of people who come here today. Like me, she is busy with her writing.





She is nearly done with her meal, I'm about to begin mine. I have to tell you, I stay at the restaurant for 2.5 hours (it converts to a cafe after lunch service and so I am not forcing them to stay open on my account). And still, I leave before she does. She orders another glass of wine, writes some more. I do the same. Two older women, committed to the text of life.

But let me show you my authentic and excellent bouillabaise. With three fish, potatoes and a few mussles. And the toasts with rouille -- which you leave floating in the thickened broth.





Toward the end of lunch (which also comes with a wonderful arugula salad and a coffee with a plateful of dessert nibbles), I take out my iPhone and check for email (there is WiFi at the restaurant). My students are about to take the exam. I need to be tuned in just in case there are problems.

There are no problems. And there will be no more student questions. This is it. I am truly done with addressing student needs.

I turn off the phone (being somewhat surprised that during my entire stay at the restaurant-cafe, not one other person took out a phone or a tablet) and continue to watch, listen, scribble notes.

At another large table a family sits down for a coffee and dessert. Two young boys are part of the group. The older, maybe ten, puts his arm protectively around the shoulders of the younger (who is maybe five). He does it in such a matter of fact way. As if saying -- this is my job. This is what I do.

The woman who, like me, is writing, is oblivious to the world. Not me: I am taking it all in. Every table, every story that unfolds around me. But eventually I force myself to pack up and exit. Just a peek, that's all that I can give myself here.  None of the people around me are part of my world. And I cannot ask her, or the others -- who are you really? What is your life like?

So I put away my notebook and move on. To the harbor again! The sun has set...





The colors are striking!





And there are so many people now, out for a walk in the cool but still pleasant winter evening! (The temperature reached the fifties during the day. At night, it will dip down to the mid thirties.)

Just a few steps away from the port, a goofy group of musicians is continuing to play for the public. I had seen them earlier in the day and now, in the evening, they're still at it. They'll start with a traditional song and after a few verses, they'll jazz it up in a way that makes you want to bounce with them.

Here they are, playing/singing an old French favorite -- La Mer (the sea).






Here's a typical onlooker: parent and kid.





But wait. Did you notice in the previous photo the women to the left of it? As the musicians picked up the beat, one of the women broke away from the group and started dancing to the music.





As their beat got perky, she swung her cane and did a spin  and then another and it was so deliciously unexpected that really, I have no other story to tell you that can top that one: an old person, enjoying life. If ever I want to reach for an image that will make me smile, this surely would be in the top of the stack: cane swings, woman spins and laughs and laughs.

The thick sliver of a moon shines brightly over Marseille tonight.






Again I skip dinner in the evening. I stay in my room and munch on cookies and try to make sense of the notes that I scribbled during the day.