To market, to market we go...

  Aix-en-Provence, France
Saturday, July 8, 2006

Aix reveals itself like a Russian nesting doll--each street and corner is achingly beautiful and yet around the next corner waits another picture-perfect scene. Fountains outnumber trash cans in this city, and it is not an infrequent sight to come upon people relaxing on the side of the fountains, washing off their hands, letting giggling children splash barefoot, or, once, dunking a yipping dog into the basin for a quick cool-down. Cafes overflow at all hours of the day, and most people have long outstayed the time it takes to finish a drink as testified by the number of empty glasses with beads of perspiration slowly dropping away. At times, the charm of this city seems too much to take in at once.



And the sun. The guidebooks promised that this is a city of 300 sunny days a year. Well. I am yearning for a Pittsburgh grey day. Is it possible to be somewhere soaked in heat and sunshine (robin's egg skies with not a cloud to be seen) and really long for the overcast atmosphere of the Steel City? Ah, the irony of culture shock.

In another serendipitous moment of this journey, we arrived early to our apartment and killed some time by wandering around Place de Precheurs (right below our windows as I type), where a Saturday morning market was in full swing, packed with crowds of canny French shoppers and the occasional tourist. We wandered around the tight stalls of sunflowers, lavender bunches so fresh that a few bees still rummaged about the flowers for a stray bit of pollen, olive oil vendors handing out samples of freshly pressed oil (reminding me of the American equivalent when trying to decide on ice cream flavors at Cold Stone or Marble Slab), and traditional Provencal wares, such as woven shopping baskets, brightly colored table cloths, and crisp white cotton dresses.

The maze eventually led us to the produce section of the market, and for this, we must have a moment of reverent silence: The French market reaffirms a belief in the existence of the garden of Eden. The smells alone are beyond describing--but I will try. There's the pungent tang of French cheeses, the yeasty waft of baguettes, the unctuous breath of olive oil, the tang of apricots warming in the sun, the meaty essence of sausages on strings. And the colors--truly an artist's palette. I feel a greedy urge to see, smell, and touch enough to last me a lifetime. If only this were an experience that I could pack in my suitcase and usher back over the Atlantic.

We've now arrived at our apartment, which will be home for this week, and James's comment sums up our opinion of this city and accommodation. As soon as our host closed the door behind her, James blurted out, "Let's come back here every year!" Quite a statement from my homebody husband. Have I convinced any of you yet to join us for une bonne vacance sometime soon?