I took my usual route over the Luberon, and ventured toward Marseille. Soon I realized that Tom Tom was directing me straight through Marseille. Quelle horreur! This is the second largest city in France, traffic is god awful, it was mid-morning of a workday and every car, moto, and truck in the city was on the streets. The saving grace was that our route remained on one major street, with no turning and route finding, just tout droit toward St. Cyr. We made it through with only a few minutes taken off my life from the experience.
Once through the city, we had a marvelous drive along the sea, which was splendid on that warm, sunny day. Think deep blue sea, light blue cloudless sky, warm breeze, palm trees and sail boats, un paradis. One can understand why the Cote d'Azur is such a popular place.
We met Kristin at a pizza resto she recommended which looked out at a lovely harbor scene. She was such a warm, inviting and interesting lunch companion, we took 2 hours to enjoy the company and the pizza. We even had a "ride-by" visit from Jean Marc, who was out on his bike and stopped to say hello. Sadly, we were having such a fine time, I forgot to take any pictures. The moral of this story for me is that you may miss some of the best times of your life if you never risk asking for them.
On the return, we stopped off in Cassis, one of the most picturesque sea side towns ever, and, relative to most of the coast, not too touristy. But since I was concerned about getting back to St. Sat. before it was too dark---the twisty, narrow roads are scary enough in broad daylight---we couldn't tarry too long. But there's always time for ice cream. Here's Alice in the harbor in Cassis:
To avoid Marseille on the way home, we gave Tom Tom the freedom to take a route that included toll roads. So off we went on the Auto Route, with Clio struggling to keep up, but with no city streets to follow. I was questioning that choice, because we kept heading farther west, toward Avignon and away from Apt. Finally we saw the exit, going back toward Apt, with all the toll booths and all the cars stopped at them. I chose a line, got to the machine, put in the toll ticket, saw the fee--3.90 euro---and inserted a credit card. It was immediately spit back at me, so I put in another, then another, then another, all of which came back. By this time there was a line behind us, of course, although there was no horn honking --good French manners. I couldn't do much else, so just turned to the car behind, did a very Gallic exaggerated shrug and hand raise (I thought), and they started moving to other lanes. Finally I could back away and get off the highway and park to consider our next move. All the booths were automatic, no people involved; I couldn't go through a cash one without my ticket, which was still in the first machine, and there was no getting off the road without breaking through a gate. We were in a fine pickle. But just then Alice spotted a woman in a uniform. I ran through traffic to catch her at one of the booths as she was emptying change from the machine, explained my problem with the cards and the ticket, and told her we owed 3.90. She was a true savior, since she believed me, took my change and opened the gate for us. Without her, we would be like the "Man who never returned from 'neath the streets of Boston". There was much enjoying of the fine bottle of wine from Chateauneuf when we finally got home.
After all that driving and adventuring, we took it easy the next day. Up late, then a short drive to Menerbes, Peter Mayle's town from his Year in Provence book. It is lovely, very much up scale and mostly restored to the nth degree. Lots of money being spent here, and it shows. One quick pic of the town Mairie:
Next stop was Rousillon and a picnic lunch, then more walking around. Took Alice to meet Chantal at her Galerie des Ocres, and they hit it off, chattering away in French about the American sociologist who spent a sabbatical year in Rousillon soon after WWII when it was languishing. He then came home and wrote a paper, turned into a book, about the town and inhabitants and culture, which became very popular. Although names were changed, tous le village knew where it was and who they were and were not necessarily happy about it.
Back home, Alice unpacked the bag in which she had carried her extra things and which had stayed in the trunk of the car. She didn't find her Ipad, so we looked and looked. Finally she did another search of the bag and realized a couple other things were missing, mostly small like cosmetics. It became horribly clear that all these things had been stolen from the car. There was no sign of any breaking into the trunk, so I must assume that I made the awful mistake of failing to lock the car, either when we took out the picnic stuff, or when it was returned to the trunk. Rousillon is known to have a problem with theft from cars, so it probably happened there and not in Menerbes. After a short time of disbelief, then anger and irritation, then more irritation getting calls through to cancel service and get her office IT person to erase all data from the tablet, and some wine, Alice marvelously moved beyond the entire event. One saving grace is that her passport was in the bag, but was not taken. I'm still feeling the guilt, but she is wonderful about the whole thing.
Tomorrow was another day, on many levels. It was Saturday, and market day in Apt. We wandered for hours, buying some things, looking at lots of others and enjoying the experience. We both found some things for gifts, and some for ourselves and some for a picnic lunch that day. We ran into neighbors, Gina and William, from St. Sat. who invited us to come by later that evening for a drink. As we sat at an outdoor table enjoying a drink after shopping, Gina and William stopped by, then Susan, her husband Fernando and Emma from school joined the group. It felt like we were part of the neighborhood, very pleasant.
After Apt, we went on a hunt for mohair. Alice had found web site for "Mohair in Provence", I found their flyer in the Apt TI and we had Tom Tom to guide, so off we go into the boonies. Way back off dirt roads we stopped at a house and farm that was the correct location, but with no people. We got out and started looking around, then a man appeared from the house and walked over to an outbuilding which had a sign on it indicating a shop. He said nothing to us, just opened the door. We went in and it was full of marvelous things---clothing made from beautiful mohair and wool yarns, and the beautiful mohair and wool yarns themselves. From what we had read, this was a goat/sheep farm where the yarn and chevre were made. Alice was totally ooohing and aaahing, and still the guy said nothing. Finally she chose several skeins of mohair, put them on the comptoir, the guy added stuff up, wrote it down on a paper and gave it to Alice. This was clearly the price, which she paid, he put the stuff into a bag, and we left, never hearing a word from him. Tres bizarre, but efficient. On the way out, we stopped by the side of road for our Apt Market lunch:
We had an early morning on Sunday, because Alice was taking the 10:50 train from Avignon to Paris for a lunch date with an artist friend from Charlotte, NC, then headed to the airport to return to Atlanta. And I was staying in Avignon to meet my brother, Sam, and sister in law, Claire, on the 2:30 train from Paris.
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