Marseille/ then Following in the footsteps of Van Gogh
Sunday, September 3, 2006
Marseille
I'm sitting on the the train waiting to return to Avignon and St. Remy. I spent Saturday with Nicole Sarradon, having taken Patrice's taxi to the TGV station. We're rolling now. The train is a double-decker this time. I'm en haut. Lots of graffiti on the cement walls we're passing.
Yesterday, Nicole met me at the station and we went to the fish market and flower market at the old port. We bought some fish for a bouillabaise at night. Nicole's daughter's mother-in-law, who has a stall there, gave them to us as a gift. Then we went to Nicole's apartment to leave my suitcase and then out in the car to Callelongue, all the way to the end of the road along the water to have lunch at a famous restaurant there. As we drove along, fog obscured the islands off the coast. For lunch we shared an anchovie pizza with no cheese. Then Nicole had fried squid and I had a risotto with shrimp and mussels. We finished a bottle of white wine between us. Just as we were looking around the restaurant, we met her friend Joelle, whom she hadn't seen for a long time, and Joelle's daughter Anne, who works for the French version of NPR. They invited us to visit their cabanon (beach cabin) down the street that's been in the family at least since 1926, but we only stayed a little while so we could continue on our itinerary. Both mother and daughter have read a lot of Tony Hillerman's books translated into French, as well as Barbara Kingsolver's books, currently on Small Wonders, the book of essays written after 9/11. I suggested Marge Piercey to them and they already knew Doris Lessing. Nicole was amazed that these books has been translated into French and that I had the appreciation of these authors in common with them. She doesn't find much time to read novels. On her train trips back and forth to Paris she often sleeps because she has to get up so early to catch the right train.
From there we drove along the coast to Cassis, and the fog had lifted. Cassis is another tourist town. After leaving the car in the parking structure, we walked down a narrow old street lined with shops selling expensive lingerie and bikini bathing suits, till we got to the harbor. Lots of boats, with sails or motors, looking large and expensive. Lots of people walking of sitting at cafes, although Nicole commented on how few people were there at the end of the season, that maybe they were getting the kids ready for the start of school Monday. After browsing through a few shops, she suggested we stop for ice cream at a famous ice cream shop. I intended to get only one small scoop, but there were so many wonderful flavors that it was necessary to get two scoops. My cone was tiramisu topped with apricot, although I think next time it should be the other way around. Nicole had caramel on the bottom and raspberry on the top. There were were many other wonderful flavors available, too many for me to remember now. After sitting and eating the ice cream and people-watching, we walked down to the water's edge so I could dip my feet into the Mediterranean. The beach was stony gravel and difficult to walk on barefooted. I was sorry I had worn my black leather SAS sandals, because my Crocs could have been worn into the water and my feet would have been more comfortable. The water was cold, but not so shocking as the second and third waves washed up to our ankles.
After we walked a way from the water's edge, just before 6pm, we saw a tourist boat docking and passengers disembarking. On the spur of the moment, we each plunked down 12 euros for a 45-minute boatride through three calanques and it was delightful but a little cool. At that time of day, not too many people were aboard, but in front of us were two younger women from New York, who were glad to hear English spoken and have the chance to ask some questions. Nicole pointed out some of the places she had come to with her family on their boat, and we saw swimmers and sunbathers perched in rock crevices.
Before leaving Cassis, we stopped at a bank machine and then at a little grocery where I bought more Activa and Nicole bought little packets of saffron from behind the counter (to prevent theft) to use in the bouillabaise. After that we started back, but had to stop at a rest area along the road for a little nap. By the time we got back to Nicole's apartment on Rue Fort du Sanctuaire, the boulangerie was closed, as were the gates at Notre Dame du Garde, at the top of the hill.
Back at her apartment, Nicole cut up potatoes and onions, and sauteed them while cutting the fish and cutting off the fins. She plunked them whole into the large pot, added more water, salt and some fennel she had collected out in the wild. I don't know how long I cooked. I was sipping on pastis and water while she was working. Then we had a white wine she bought in the little store while we ate dinner, after 9pm. Dessert was raspberries whe took out of the freezer, a pear, and figs. It was about 11pm when we started to bed and almost 12 by the time I shut off the light.
In the morning, we walked down to the corner to buy fresh bread and croissants. I had wakened around 9 am, having slept in Nicole's room while she slept in the loft bed in the back guest room. Bad choice, because there were vehicles going past the window from early morning, keeping me from sleeping soundly. Nicole and I sat down for breakfast in the patio, enclosed by the building, but open to the sky. Besides croissants and coffee, I ate one of my Activa yogurts with muesli—-really good, and I don't think that kind is available back home—-and some of the fougasse (a lace-like bread according to the phrase book, but more like a large soft pretzel, and typical of Provence). Had about a half slice of ham and some fig jam and apricot jam that Nicole had made.
Nicole started to not feel well and went to lie down on the couch and I cleared the table. She said it wouldn't be good for her to drive me to the train station. Since the last time she had these symptoms (previously diagnosed as vegas nerve malaise), she fainted and was taken to the hospital. So, she called a taxi for me. I got to the station in plenty of time, but without the little side trip up to Notre Dame du Garde, to see the view, as we had planned. We had tried it last night but the gates were already closed at 7:50, even though the sign said they should have been open until 8pm. I never got a chance to check my email, although that was one of the things I was looking forward to doing in Marseille. Another thing I didn't get to do in Marseille was to get a nail rebase. According to Nicole, this kind of manicure with acrylic or gel nails is not as popular in France as in the U.S. She had tried calling a few places on Saturday, but wasn't able to find one that offered the service.
September 5, 2006
I'm in a tea room called Biscuit & Biscuit on one of the little streets in the old part of St. Remy, and I finally found a computer with an American style keyboard! However the @ and quotation marks don't work the right way. Never mind. While checking my email, I sipped on a cafe frappe, a sweetened black iced coffee with foam on the top, and two little chocolate cookies. And there was a fan, which didn't exist at the copy place. On the wall was a sign about a nice little meal including a glass of wine and coffee or tesane for 9 euros, so maybe I'll eat lunch here next time.
Did I mention before that Van Gogh spent about a year or so here, at the St. Paul monastery where they treat the mentally ill with art therapy? Went on a walking tour there a few days ago. Very interesting. (see previous post and scroll down to September 1.) Then yesterday I tried to follow the rest of a tour marked by reproductions of Van Gogh's paintings (they pronounce the G here, by the way), but found it mostly unenlightening. While he was here, Van Gogh painted about 150 paintings, as well as a number of drawings. Lots of olive trees and cypress trees. Today I went to the Van Gogh Centre, Hotel Estrine, where they have more reproductions of his paintings, but I didn't have the patience to read all the captions. Also on exhibit were paintings by two other artists I never heard of before, Edgar Pignon and Albert Geize. They were around at the first half of the 20th century, and were influenced by Picasso and Cezanne, cubism, etc.
This afternoon, I'll drive about 10 minutes to another village, Maillane, where Frederic Mistral lived. Tomorrow is the market in the public parking lot of St. Remy, in the morning. Later I may drive to Cavaillon, to see the old synagogue that's there. I read about it in a New York Times article.
I began to feel deprived of news, since it's too hard for me to decipher on the radio, and I haven't tried yet on TV. Instead, yesterday I bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune, and today a copy of the London Times International edition, which I read at lunch at the Cafe des Arenes. It looks like nothing much has changed in terms of war news, but some of the other articles are interesting. I'm almost at the end of the Kellerman mystery I brought with me, and long ago finished the Betsy James (of Albuquerque) novel. I may have to spend about 12 euros for a paperback copy of a Richard North Patterson novel, or something similar, so I don't run out of reading material for the trip home. There are books at Henri's house, but I wouldn't be able to take them with me, and I haven't noticed any novels in English, although I read a book on blogs by Hugh Hewitt and saw a book about narcissistic personalities in English on his desk.
The plat du jour today was chicken breast over fresh (cooked) apricots with balsamic vinegar, Indian style rice (cinnamon? raisins?) and a grilled tomato slice. I thought I was going to get something with duck, because that was on another slate, but must have been left from yesterday. Only cost 9.50 euros today.
Since this internet place is reasonably priced (1.5 euros/half hour), I might stop here again in a day or two. By the way, if anyone who reads this has contact information for Sy Marcuse, please send it to me. I forgot to take it with me from home, and I can't remember his wife Anne's last name--the phone is listed under here. Thanks in advance.
At 3:30 I walked back to the car. I could feel the heat of the day. Drove to Maillane and joined a tour of the house of Frederic Mistral already in progress, in french. Others on the tour included a couple from Scotland who now spend half the year nearby in their own house, a Japanses woman who spoke French, and a French teacher from Novi. Her school is in the family home and provides room and board for the students. She gave me her card. It was 5pm by the time we finished. I got in the car and drove on to Graveson, a little village of population 3190, listed as a place on the half-day tour that I wouldn't mbe able to complete, since it was so late. This time I parked before I got into the very center of town (but not far away), having decided that walking is a better way to find the tourist office and sites of interest. On the way I stopped in a little boulangerie (bakery), carefully passing by the fancy pastries and bought two of the little cookies that are supposed to be trademarks of the area. Got a map with instructions of how to get to the Museum of Aroma and Perfume, but since I could see the Musee Auguste Chabaud , and it already was 5:30 or 5:45, I opted for that, although both were open until 6:30pm. Auguste Chabaud was born in 1882, died in 1955. Not born in Graveson, but lived there with his wife, who was from there. Three floors of his paintings and drawings. Early stuff seemed rather primitive, as in "I can do that." Some nudes and other rather simple subjects. Got better later on. I bought a postcard of his "La Roubine a Graveson" (1912) which shows the canal that runs down the main street in front of the museum. I took a photo of the same scene from the second floor window of the museum, so it will be interesting to show them together, if I ever get them uploaded to this blog, then and now.
Leaving the museum, I took a photo of the front of the Mairie, with its multicolored flags. Then realized I could use the local cash machine instead of having to make a special stop in St. Remy. I'm going through cash as if it were water slipping through my fingers, taking out 100-120 euros at a time. I'm paying for most things withcash, because of the high minimum most places have for credit cards. Hopefully it won't cost me as much in exchange fees, either, since I was warned there's now a 3% or $3 charge on paying in foreign currency with credit cards.
After the bank, I stopped in a little grocery store to buy a cold Coke Light (diet Pepsi is almost always unavailable). There was a tall man, bald with a mustache, who perceived I didn't understand French too well and asked what language I did speak and where was I from? He claimed to speak seven languages besides French, including Arabic and German, and conversed with me in English. He said he had family in Pitsburgh and Philadelphia and in Florida. He wanted to impress on the kid who sorked there how important it was to speak English, because one could communicate in many other countries with it. The boy was learning English in school, but couldn't understand what were were saying, or even say "Thank you" to me for my purchase. Pleasant man, but it seemed our small talk wasn't going any further, so I left. Drank my coke and at my second cookie on the drive back to the house.
When I got back to the house, I found out there was no water, so before settling down I had to call Henri. It was a matter of circuit breakers in the pool house, problem solved.
Now that I'm getting braver about driving around, it seems that I spend less and less time at home writing. I look at my days "dwindling down to a precious few," and start thinking about other places I should go. The French teacher urged me to go to Arles, something about a lot of changes or imporvements. I don't know how far it is from here, but not far I think. Snack before dinner was iced coffee and some bread with tapanade and mousse de canard.
Marseille
I'm sitting on the the train waiting to return to Avignon and St. Remy. I spent Saturday with Nicole Sarradon, having taken Patrice's taxi to the TGV station. We're rolling now. The train is a double-decker this time. I'm en haut. Lots of graffiti on the cement walls we're passing.
Yesterday, Nicole met me at the station and we went to the fish market and flower market at the old port. We bought some fish for a bouillabaise at night. Nicole's daughter's mother-in-law, who has a stall there, gave them to us as a gift. Then we went to Nicole's apartment to leave my suitcase and then out in the car to Callelongue, all the way to the end of the road along the water to have lunch at a famous restaurant there. As we drove along, fog obscured the islands off the coast. For lunch we shared an anchovie pizza with no cheese. Then Nicole had fried squid and I had a risotto with shrimp and mussels. We finished a bottle of white wine between us. Just as we were looking around the restaurant, we met her friend Joelle, whom she hadn't seen for a long time, and Joelle's daughter Anne, who works for the French version of NPR. They invited us to visit their cabanon (beach cabin) down the street that's been in the family at least since 1926, but we only stayed a little while so we could continue on our itinerary. Both mother and daughter have read a lot of Tony Hillerman's books translated into French, as well as Barbara Kingsolver's books, currently on Small Wonders, the book of essays written after 9/11. I suggested Marge Piercey to them and they already knew Doris Lessing. Nicole was amazed that these books has been translated into French and that I had the appreciation of these authors in common with them. She doesn't find much time to read novels. On her train trips back and forth to Paris she often sleeps because she has to get up so early to catch the right train.
From there we drove along the coast to Cassis, and the fog had lifted. Cassis is another tourist town. After leaving the car in the parking structure, we walked down a narrow old street lined with shops selling expensive lingerie and bikini bathing suits, till we got to the harbor. Lots of boats, with sails or motors, looking large and expensive. Lots of people walking of sitting at cafes, although Nicole commented on how few people were there at the end of the season, that maybe they were getting the kids ready for the start of school Monday. After browsing through a few shops, she suggested we stop for ice cream at a famous ice cream shop. I intended to get only one small scoop, but there were so many wonderful flavors that it was necessary to get two scoops. My cone was tiramisu topped with apricot, although I think next time it should be the other way around. Nicole had caramel on the bottom and raspberry on the top. There were were many other wonderful flavors available, too many for me to remember now. After sitting and eating the ice cream and people-watching, we walked down to the water's edge so I could dip my feet into the Mediterranean. The beach was stony gravel and difficult to walk on barefooted. I was sorry I had worn my black leather SAS sandals, because my Crocs could have been worn into the water and my feet would have been more comfortable. The water was cold, but not so shocking as the second and third waves washed up to our ankles.
After we walked a way from the water's edge, just before 6pm, we saw a tourist boat docking and passengers disembarking. On the spur of the moment, we each plunked down 12 euros for a 45-minute boatride through three calanques and it was delightful but a little cool. At that time of day, not too many people were aboard, but in front of us were two younger women from New York, who were glad to hear English spoken and have the chance to ask some questions. Nicole pointed out some of the places she had come to with her family on their boat, and we saw swimmers and sunbathers perched in rock crevices.
Before leaving Cassis, we stopped at a bank machine and then at a little grocery where I bought more Activa and Nicole bought little packets of saffron from behind the counter (to prevent theft) to use in the bouillabaise. After that we started back, but had to stop at a rest area along the road for a little nap. By the time we got back to Nicole's apartment on Rue Fort du Sanctuaire, the boulangerie was closed, as were the gates at Notre Dame du Garde, at the top of the hill.
Back at her apartment, Nicole cut up potatoes and onions, and sauteed them while cutting the fish and cutting off the fins. She plunked them whole into the large pot, added more water, salt and some fennel she had collected out in the wild. I don't know how long I cooked. I was sipping on pastis and water while she was working. Then we had a white wine she bought in the little store while we ate dinner, after 9pm. Dessert was raspberries whe took out of the freezer, a pear, and figs. It was about 11pm when we started to bed and almost 12 by the time I shut off the light.
In the morning, we walked down to the corner to buy fresh bread and croissants. I had wakened around 9 am, having slept in Nicole's room while she slept in the loft bed in the back guest room. Bad choice, because there were vehicles going past the window from early morning, keeping me from sleeping soundly. Nicole and I sat down for breakfast in the patio, enclosed by the building, but open to the sky. Besides croissants and coffee, I ate one of my Activa yogurts with muesli—-really good, and I don't think that kind is available back home—-and some of the fougasse (a lace-like bread according to the phrase book, but more like a large soft pretzel, and typical of Provence). Had about a half slice of ham and some fig jam and apricot jam that Nicole had made.
Nicole started to not feel well and went to lie down on the couch and I cleared the table. She said it wouldn't be good for her to drive me to the train station. Since the last time she had these symptoms (previously diagnosed as vegas nerve malaise), she fainted and was taken to the hospital. So, she called a taxi for me. I got to the station in plenty of time, but without the little side trip up to Notre Dame du Garde, to see the view, as we had planned. We had tried it last night but the gates were already closed at 7:50, even though the sign said they should have been open until 8pm. I never got a chance to check my email, although that was one of the things I was looking forward to doing in Marseille. Another thing I didn't get to do in Marseille was to get a nail rebase. According to Nicole, this kind of manicure with acrylic or gel nails is not as popular in France as in the U.S. She had tried calling a few places on Saturday, but wasn't able to find one that offered the service.
September 5, 2006
I'm in a tea room called Biscuit & Biscuit on one of the little streets in the old part of St. Remy, and I finally found a computer with an American style keyboard! However the @ and quotation marks don't work the right way. Never mind. While checking my email, I sipped on a cafe frappe, a sweetened black iced coffee with foam on the top, and two little chocolate cookies. And there was a fan, which didn't exist at the copy place. On the wall was a sign about a nice little meal including a glass of wine and coffee or tesane for 9 euros, so maybe I'll eat lunch here next time.
Did I mention before that Van Gogh spent about a year or so here, at the St. Paul monastery where they treat the mentally ill with art therapy? Went on a walking tour there a few days ago. Very interesting. (see previous post and scroll down to September 1.) Then yesterday I tried to follow the rest of a tour marked by reproductions of Van Gogh's paintings (they pronounce the G here, by the way), but found it mostly unenlightening. While he was here, Van Gogh painted about 150 paintings, as well as a number of drawings. Lots of olive trees and cypress trees. Today I went to the Van Gogh Centre, Hotel Estrine, where they have more reproductions of his paintings, but I didn't have the patience to read all the captions. Also on exhibit were paintings by two other artists I never heard of before, Edgar Pignon and Albert Geize. They were around at the first half of the 20th century, and were influenced by Picasso and Cezanne, cubism, etc.
This afternoon, I'll drive about 10 minutes to another village, Maillane, where Frederic Mistral lived. Tomorrow is the market in the public parking lot of St. Remy, in the morning. Later I may drive to Cavaillon, to see the old synagogue that's there. I read about it in a New York Times article.
I began to feel deprived of news, since it's too hard for me to decipher on the radio, and I haven't tried yet on TV. Instead, yesterday I bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune, and today a copy of the London Times International edition, which I read at lunch at the Cafe des Arenes. It looks like nothing much has changed in terms of war news, but some of the other articles are interesting. I'm almost at the end of the Kellerman mystery I brought with me, and long ago finished the Betsy James (of Albuquerque) novel. I may have to spend about 12 euros for a paperback copy of a Richard North Patterson novel, or something similar, so I don't run out of reading material for the trip home. There are books at Henri's house, but I wouldn't be able to take them with me, and I haven't noticed any novels in English, although I read a book on blogs by Hugh Hewitt and saw a book about narcissistic personalities in English on his desk.
The plat du jour today was chicken breast over fresh (cooked) apricots with balsamic vinegar, Indian style rice (cinnamon? raisins?) and a grilled tomato slice. I thought I was going to get something with duck, because that was on another slate, but must have been left from yesterday. Only cost 9.50 euros today.
Since this internet place is reasonably priced (1.5 euros/half hour), I might stop here again in a day or two. By the way, if anyone who reads this has contact information for Sy Marcuse, please send it to me. I forgot to take it with me from home, and I can't remember his wife Anne's last name--the phone is listed under here. Thanks in advance.
At 3:30 I walked back to the car. I could feel the heat of the day. Drove to Maillane and joined a tour of the house of Frederic Mistral already in progress, in french. Others on the tour included a couple from Scotland who now spend half the year nearby in their own house, a Japanses woman who spoke French, and a French teacher from Novi. Her school is in the family home and provides room and board for the students. She gave me her card. It was 5pm by the time we finished. I got in the car and drove on to Graveson, a little village of population 3190, listed as a place on the half-day tour that I wouldn't mbe able to complete, since it was so late. This time I parked before I got into the very center of town (but not far away), having decided that walking is a better way to find the tourist office and sites of interest. On the way I stopped in a little boulangerie (bakery), carefully passing by the fancy pastries and bought two of the little cookies that are supposed to be trademarks of the area. Got a map with instructions of how to get to the Museum of Aroma and Perfume, but since I could see the Musee Auguste Chabaud , and it already was 5:30 or 5:45, I opted for that, although both were open until 6:30pm. Auguste Chabaud was born in 1882, died in 1955. Not born in Graveson, but lived there with his wife, who was from there. Three floors of his paintings and drawings. Early stuff seemed rather primitive, as in "I can do that." Some nudes and other rather simple subjects. Got better later on. I bought a postcard of his "La Roubine a Graveson" (1912) which shows the canal that runs down the main street in front of the museum. I took a photo of the same scene from the second floor window of the museum, so it will be interesting to show them together, if I ever get them uploaded to this blog, then and now.
Leaving the museum, I took a photo of the front of the Mairie, with its multicolored flags. Then realized I could use the local cash machine instead of having to make a special stop in St. Remy. I'm going through cash as if it were water slipping through my fingers, taking out 100-120 euros at a time. I'm paying for most things withcash, because of the high minimum most places have for credit cards. Hopefully it won't cost me as much in exchange fees, either, since I was warned there's now a 3% or $3 charge on paying in foreign currency with credit cards.
After the bank, I stopped in a little grocery store to buy a cold Coke Light (diet Pepsi is almost always unavailable). There was a tall man, bald with a mustache, who perceived I didn't understand French too well and asked what language I did speak and where was I from? He claimed to speak seven languages besides French, including Arabic and German, and conversed with me in English. He said he had family in Pitsburgh and Philadelphia and in Florida. He wanted to impress on the kid who sorked there how important it was to speak English, because one could communicate in many other countries with it. The boy was learning English in school, but couldn't understand what were were saying, or even say "Thank you" to me for my purchase. Pleasant man, but it seemed our small talk wasn't going any further, so I left. Drank my coke and at my second cookie on the drive back to the house.
When I got back to the house, I found out there was no water, so before settling down I had to call Henri. It was a matter of circuit breakers in the pool house, problem solved.
Now that I'm getting braver about driving around, it seems that I spend less and less time at home writing. I look at my days "dwindling down to a precious few," and start thinking about other places I should go. The French teacher urged me to go to Arles, something about a lot of changes or imporvements. I don't know how far it is from here, but not far I think. Snack before dinner was iced coffee and some bread with tapanade and mousse de canard.
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