Cezanne, Sextius and Calisson d'Aix

Standing in Barcelona Sants, we were handed our reservations.
"You cannot make reservations for France in Spain."
"Um. Okay."
"So when you hit Valence, make your reservation there. Three euros per person."
"Will that make us late for our next connection?"
"No. Never. Not at all."
This crossed our mind as we stepped off our train, late by five minutes, to see our connection pulling away. No train to Aix for another five hours, which would put us in Aix five hours later than we said we would be. Patching together some communication with our AirBnb host Regine, we sat in the TGV Gare armed with a beer and some episodes of The Wire. Nothing like some drug related killing and conspiracy to take your mind off. Gazing out the picture window, sun high, lanes of lavender run out, flanked by golden wheat. The mountains rise out in the distance, a skirt of dense grass and wildflowers billowing out like a blanket.

We staggered through the narrow lanes of Aix as the sun was setting and everyone was piling out of their apartments into the cooler air and up to a table filled with chilled wine. Aix en Provence has the heat of Mataro without the merciful proximity to the water. Taking a cold shower morning and night accomplishes as much as making your towel damp. And though they don't call it that, everyone takes a siesta. The only people who stay open are the ones slinging cold beverages which usually seems to consist of some Pastis and Perrier or rose wine on ice. We got in the spirit of things and bought our own bottle of Ricard, which we liked with a wedge of lemon and a spritz of tonic.

The first university in Aix was founded in the early 1400's and with a population of only about 145,000 it's well established as a university town. I didn't realize this until at 430 am on our first night where we were 'entertained' by the antics of four drunken French boys in the apartment across the narrow street from us which involved swinging from their laundry line. Surprisingly resilient.

Aix itself was founded in 123 AD as part of the Roman empire and there is something distinct about Provence in comparison to Paris. It has it's European class and flare with something a little different. When trying to discover the must-sees in the region, two common things pop up: fountains and markets. The former is obviously a point of pride from the Roman empire. One fountain, along the famous Cours Mirabeau, aptly named the "Mossy fountain" for the cape of moss that obscures any detailing that was once visible, is fed by a hot spring that also fed the Roman Baths at the northwest corner of the historic centre.

The latter truly holds the magic of Provence. Select mornings during the week, shaded narrow streets open up into a square filled with lanes of vendors selling everything local imaginable, from rosemary blossom honey, herbs de provence, local cheese, handmade pasta, fresh baguettes, olives, even Calisson d'Aix, a tiny local specialty. Wandering out of one market, your wicker basket overflowing with local goodies, you pick up a fresh bouquet of flowers for your table and a tasty bottle of Cotes du Rhone to tie it all together.

Provence was the first time I understood why sometimes you should chill red wine. Drinking red wine at 'room temperature', the temperature it is coming off the counter, is like drinking blood. Thick, red, and seemingly hot.

Cezanne is the prize child of Provence. Anywhere he did anything so much as stub out a cigarette there's a little bronze "C" to mark it's significance. They have made Atelier Cezanne, his studio into a museum. And by museum, I mean they put a gate on his house and didn't move a thing. And they charge 5 euro for it.

The way to see Provencal France, in retrospect, would be to leapfrog through the region spending a few days in each, experience the unique landscape, culture, and gastronomic specialities of each. We poked around found a cheap rental car that we could rent for a day and maybe get our taste of the French Riviera. We were charmed by this idea. Fields of lavender, the aptly named 'azure' waters of the Mediterranean, a good bowl of bouillabaisse maybe. Before we knew it we were screaming down the A50, screaming at French drivers who are apparently ignorant of what signal lights are for or what 'following distance' is.

Weaving through wine country, we spit out in St. Tropez for our little slice of the high life. Not one for the ritzy beach crowd, we headed to Plage de Pampellone, a stretch of beach southeast of St. Tropez. A beach of unmanicured sand, calm waters and lanes of people, men and women, going COMPLETELY al fresco. Any moment of 'whoa boobs' that I had in Mataro was instantly trumped by moments of 'there's ANOTHER penis' in St. Tropez. In poking around as to the best beaches, we were told if you wanted something more 'risqué' you should try Plage Tahiti, it's 'clothing optional'. I'm not exactly sure what they meant by risqué, but I'm of the opinion now that I would have to see people playing beer pong with a special appendage before I would consider nudity 'risqué' on a French beach.

Piling back into the car, we wove through the hairpin turns of the French Riviera, flanked by rows of grapevines, and climbing ivy, plumes of palm trees and brick lain fences coiling around AOC designations and plummeting cliffs. Cassis was easily our favourite and the most striking. The mountainous Le Chateau rising to the east and the gorge-like Calanques to the West, said to be France's Grand Canyon, it was the first in the region to receive an AOC distinction for it's wine with a Cassis white known worldwide.

From Cannes to Bandol, Cassis to Marseille, Nice to Avignon, we waved to each as we wove, with the windows open, back to our stomping grounds.

We made our rental back with about four minutes to spare. Swinging by for some fresh charcuterie and another baguette, my in-house chef made our last night in Provence one to remember with a primavera of fresh tomatoes, ashed chèvre, fresh pasta and olives. He also cleaned out the fridge which was nice of him.

Things I learned in Provence:
There is no shame in putting ice in wine.
A baguette and some olives is a meal in itself.
All cultures have a siesta. Or at least they should.

Quote from Provence:
Moozh: I don't care who I offend when I say this. French drivers are the worst drivers I've ever seen. Fuck French drivers, babe.