Sunday in Aix and virtually nothing is open. A few groceries and boulangeries are open in the morning, close for a couple of hours at midday, and may open again in the later afternoon. The international chains in Les Allées d’Aix – Sephora, Zara, H&M – are open for the determined shoppers. A number of restaurants stay open to feed the hungry. Late in the morning it is possible to see a few locals and clergy chatting happily at the end of the church service – children in Sunday best, priests resplendent, but most of the adults in smart casual.
The result is a lot of confused tourists wandering around looking for entertainment – the museums and galleries are closed too – and mostly ending up sitting in a street-front restaurant, eating, drinking, and watching the passing parade. I suspect the locals mostly get out of town. Certainly the petrol stations are busy, and for many people the weekend is possibly the only time they get to use their cars.
In the Centre Ville the tiny streets, and even the super wide Cours Mirabeau, are protected by bollards that pop up and down to allow only special card holders to enter. Of course everyone walks on the roads, which are surprisingly dangerous notwithstanding the limited entry for cars. The bollards are no barrier to motorbikes, scooters or bicycles, and few bother to use horns or bells to warn they are coming. Even cars can sneak up on pedestrians very quickly. But it is the two wheeled drivers who are the menace. They do not show the same care or courtesy as motorists, and woe betide anyone who does not leap out of their way. I am told you develop a 6th sense for when to get out of the way. I need to develop mine soon. I do not want to be testing my travel insurance anytime soon.
Anyway, the point I was starting to make about Sundays, is that it is a bit like it used to be in NZ. That is to say, you can get up late, entertain yourself without the need for commerce, and generally have one day of the week that is spent in quiet enjoyment. I am not sure if I appreciate it or not at the moment. I am so used to being able to get whatever I want, whenever I want. But for those working in retail or running small retail businesses, it is a blessing. And I am sure we could struggle through with a day off shopping in NZ if need be. Might even get to enjoy it, as I do Easter Fridays at the moment, although I admit by Easter Sunday I am generally over it!
This morning I went for a walk, just to keep the exercise level up. The weather has turned breezy, so a bit cooler today. I encountered yet another military patrol, and this time I was determined to catch the eye of one of the soldiers, just to see what they were focusing on. I did, and decided he looked about 12. But I am sure he is a highly trained 12 year old who knows the signs of a potential terrorist and how to use the automatic weapon he is carrying. I am really not trying to be dismissive. I know France has suffered a number of attacks, including not far from here, and that heightened security is essential. But I just don’t know how to react to this facet of life in France (in Europe?), which seems so incongruous in a place like Aix. Certainly I feel no less secure than I did in NZ, but that is because the attacks are so random it seems pointless to do anything but dismiss the possibility from your head.
So let me backtrack a bit. I have been here three weeks now, and the last week and a bit on my own. For the first fortnight my sister Jacqui was here with me, and we got around a wee bit. After 32 hours in transit, including the world’s longest commercial flight (Auckland to Doha – 18 hours), we picked up my brand new lease car and drove almost two hours from Nice to Aix to take over the apartment. For the next week we never slept a single night beyond 2am extending eventually to 4 am, but we managed a whole heap of rambling around Aix, took in an exhibition at Hôtel Caumont, and went a train trip to Marseille for lunch and a look at the old port. At the end of that first week we had a long weekend in Paris with my friends Sylvie and Camille to show us around – fitted in tours of the Marais, St Germaine, Montmatre and La Pigalle, shopping, eating, and a trip up the Eiffel Tower. Before she left we also did a quick guided tour of some Provence highlights – Arles, Pont du Gard, Avignon, St Remy, Les Beaux – and she used her last day in time honoured fashion to buy up half the town.
Then I drove her back to Nice Airport, dropped her off, and I have been on my own since. The key seems to be establishing a routine, and working out how to do those ordinary tasks we take for granted at home. I have never found it too difficult to fit into new surroundings after a few days to get used to them. In this case the apartment is lovely, and ideally placed whether for walking into town, or accessing the motorway by car. Being alone is a bit of a challenge, but I anticipated that, and anyway I have lived mostly alone for the last few years. Somehow not having to go to work does not mean there is nothing to do during the day. There is still a household to maintain, albeit modest in its demands, and I am keeping to a daily yoga and walking schedule (sadly no convenient indoor swimming pools around). I am also trying to write a bit each day, and to keep a photo record of my time here with daily FaceBooking postings. I imagine people will soon get sick of looking at them, but they are a record for me as well.
Food is interesting. Jacqui and I ate out a lot, and enjoyed doing so. We also breakfasted on croissants, and occasionally resorted to the very good bread, cheese and charcuterie for an easy meal. But that is not really a sustainable way to eat, and I am hoping to improve my fitness, not sabotage my weight. So I eat a late breakfast of muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruit, skip lunch, maybe take a hot chocolate, or glass of wine or cider in the afternoon, and cook my own dinner. Because I am still finding my feet and not much interested in cooking for one anyway, dinners are basic but healthy – grilled meat and salad or veggies – no frills. I will save the break outs for the times I have people with me.
So sorry, no stories of pigging out on the glorious patisseries, although they are to be found everywhere. Nor am I drinking live a fish – although the range of wines here is amazing. This particular area produces a huge volume of very good rosés, which seems to suit the climate.
Communication is also interesting. I can read more than sufficiently well to get by, but speaking and understanding conversation is a different thing. No doubt my accent is atrocious, but I have enough of a handle on the basics that people generally understand what I am saying. No matter what the circumstances, I begin every conversation in French. People seem to know what I want, but they often over-estimate my ability to deal with the response. The butcher and I get on well. He takes my order, asks me if that is all I want, tells me how much it is, and bids me good day. All in French, both of us. But others immediately switch to English or Franglais. This makes me feel inadequate, which of course I am.
I persevere, throwing French phrases into my English sentences, and asking the better English speakers the correct terminology from time to time. There is, at the end of the day, very little chance of not being able to achieve what I am aiming for, but it feels like a little victory every time a whole transaction is completed in French.
That is enough for today. I have friends to pick up from Marseille Airport this evening, so that will be another little adventure in itself. Next time I might add a bit to the grandma story …
