Heading North

We're clearly no longer in Aix. The sun is gone, thick clouds have moved in, it’s dreary and it's raining. Burgundy and its famous wines are lovely but I so miss the southern sun.

A mere five hours on the autoroute and we’d arrived in a different world. You can drop France into America’s second largest state with a few stray Texan angles poking out, but the geographical variety found in the hexagon outdoes the Lone Star State, hands down. Every corner has its own special treasures and we’ve loved getting to know so many of them but the stops we planned for the five days our way up to Paris would all be in areas new to us: Burgundy, Lorraine and Picardy.

As we left Aix and headed north, we waved goodbye to the fields of sunflowers flanking either side of the highway. We passed by their heavy, bowing heads that just like the lavender, were done with the season, their broad round faces all tired and brown. And so the recitation of our on the road “lasts” began: we saw our last sunflowers; we picked up our last rental car; we paid our last toll; we stopped at our last rest stop; we exited our last autoroute. There would be countless more Gap Year “lasts” in the coming days and each time we checked them off, it took just a little something out of me.

I thought of the string of valedictions behind us – the farewells we’d said to places, images, people and experiences – and it reminded me of the things we’d left strewn in our wake. All along the way, every time we repacked, we did everything we could to lighten our heavy load. I convinced Joe to finally say goodbye to the rarely used, clumsy golf umbrella he lugged along for eight months (I called it Albie, short for Albatross). And there are t-shirts, shorts, socks, jeans, sweaters, scarves and guidebooks -- in bus depots, train stations and hotel rooms, on park benches, train compartment seats and tourist office bookcases. We generated a trail of laundry -- things either no longer needed or that we could no longer bear to wear -- from France to Turkey and abandoned a packed duffle on wheels in a train station in Sicily. The note said, “I’m for whomever wants me.” Throughout our trip, I anticipated the day, with both dread and more than a little amusement, that we would see someone on a train or on a line in front of us wearing one of Joe’s discarded sweaters or my oversized sweatpants.

Just in time, our arrival at the incomparable pink and green shuttered Bernard Loiseau country auberge in tiny Saulieu, smack in the middle of vineyard-rich Burgundy, snapped me out of my soulful reverie looking backwards. It was time to face forward and appreciate present pleasures. For years I had hoped to one day visit the legendary inn (where everything is about the food), lovingly built around the three-starred Michelin restaurant as its centerpiece, despite the fact that the property is burdened with a tragic story. I had learned about the establishment and its chef, Bernard Loiseau, a deeply troubled, driven, perfectionist husband and father of three, in an interview with his wife on the French program, Champs-Elysées.

In 2003 at age 52 and in the depths of clinical depression, Bernard committed suicide at his home around the corner from the restaurant after putting in a full day’s work in the kitchen amid rumors that his restaurant was on the verge of losing one of its three stars. He had worked tirelessly for 17 years to establish his preeminence and earn his bona fides, yet was deeply in debt and had grown increasingly despondent. His aggrieved yet accomplished widow, Dominique, took over the business, which not only survived the family tragedy but also prospered under her direction. The ironic chapter of the sad story is that the restaurant was never downgraded, never lost a star and in the hands of new executive chef, Patrick Bertron, has thrived.

We spent two nights at the Relais Bernard Loiseau and ate our way through our first ever three-star meal. The rustically elegant dining room was warmly decorated, dimly lit and looked out on a leafy garden courtyard. The meal did not disappoint. For over two hours we surrendered to the sheer love of eating and delighted in savoring every dish, gourmandise and mignardise put in front of us. Every mouthful was exquisite, each a tiny spoonful of sublime nuggets with subtle flavors, and all accompanied by a delicate Pouilly-Fuissé. Our dinner was outstanding and faultlessly executed, the atmosphere was relaxed, the service was friendly and unhurried and there were no pretentions to be found.

While we certainly missed the blue skies of Aix, the dining room radiance of our dinner in Burgundy went a long way towards easing our ache for the sun. Through the power of taste and a fine dining experience, we paid tribute to Bernard Loiseau, his passion for food and the classic French restaurant he left behin
d.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Fabulous Field Trips

On any given day in Aix, there were myriad choices for things to do. We took fabulous field trips with classmates on outings organized by school, attended presentations and ventured out on our own in and out of town. Perhaps because the prospect of remaining sedentary in a corner cafe was so appealing, we valiantly fought the urge until we’d been up and on the go and then rewarded ourselves afterwards with some cafe culture relaxation.

Aix is graced with a Relais et Chateaux property on the edge of town secreted behind tall, thick hedges of cypress and oleander and perched on the side of a hill. One afternoon after class, we enjoyed lunch at the Villa Gallici on a sycamore-shaded terrace at a glass-topped table in thick-cushioned patio chairs overlooking a fashionable pool. While enjoying the afternoon through the gentle haze of a bottle of Bandol rose, we were were fascinated by the image of a waiter in a tuxedo delivering perfect chicken salads on a silver tray to a willowy woman in an itsy bitsy burgundy bikini lounging under a matching oversized pool umbrella with her young son. Only in France and only on the terrace of a Relais et Chateux hotel is such a tableau possible.

We went on a weekend school outing to the Mediterranean coastal towns of La Ciotat and Cassis. Our bus was packed with international students ready for a day at the shore. Our first stop was La Ciotat’s Saturday morning market along the harbor where we shopped for fresh provisions for lunch. Market people are happy people and we have yet to meet a surly seller behind an open-air stand. We filled our bags with tapenades, a baguette, chunks of cheese, slices of ham, sun-dried tomatoes and juicy white peaches, our mouths watering for the picnic lunch we soon devoured at our second stop, the local beach. The day was the usual (but never taken for granted) sun and azure skies with scorching heat best avoided in the cool shade of seaside cedars. Post-picnic, we moved on to the charming little town of Cassis where we caught a boat to explore LesCalanques, remarkable steep-walled limestone coves with perfectly clear water that perforate the Mediterranean shoreline east of Marseille.

Sunburned and exhausted from the excursion, we all piled onto the bus for the brief trip back to Aix. Just after we’d all settled in for a quiet ride home, a couple of renegade Cavaillon melons escaped from shopping bags at the rear of the bus and came rolling down the center aisle, much to everyone’s amusement. It was a fitting end to another glorious day in the abundant Eden that is the south of France.   

Marseille was a brief 30-minute bus ride directly south of Aix and so we ventured out on our own for an afternoon in the vieux port. Founded in 600 BC and the oldest town in France, it is now the second largest city in the country (although the residents of Lyon often like to challenge this Marseillais claim). We had an early seafood dinner along the lines of yachts and fishing boats and were pleasantly surprised that the wharf area wasn’t half as gritty as we’d imagined. Despite the sea breezes the day was extremely hot, lethargy prevailed and we found ourselves purchasing the most touristy ticket of our year. We took the little baby blue train on wheels that wanders around the city and up to the top of a limestone peak with a panoramic view over the city. As we approached the summit, the electronically generated (and apparently translated) French commentary announced that we were arriving at the Notre Dame de la Garde church, famous for its 30-foot high gilded Madonna and Child atop the steeple. So far, so good except that the English translation that followed suggested that we, "look up to see the golden Virgin and her Kid." We must have been the only English speakers aboard because we were the only ones laughing.

I was so proud of Joe, quite the adventurer when it came to accompanying me and paying close attention to school-sponsored, all-in-French epicurean presentations. As he likes to remind me, when the subject is food and wine, his comprehension is amazingly good. The first was a wine dégustation (tasting) in the IS school building. Our master wine prof brought five wonderful bottles for us to sample after a brilliant lecture about the history of wine and the finer points of drinking it. We’ve been to many wine tastings over the years and at each one we learn something. One of the fascinating new nuggets imparted was that the reason vineyards developed along rivers and the sea was not because grapevines needed irrigating. Rather, it was that most of the ancients traveled by water, communicating with those along the way about the science of viticulture; thus was the word disseminated. It all started in eastern Turkey and spread out from there.

When there’s wine, cheese is sure to follow, so our next dégustation was of the dairy variety at the home of a local Aixois woman – a lovely hostess who delighted in opening her doors to international students. We sampled almost all the cheeses presented -- at least 30 local varieties -- all sheep and goat cheeses since there are no cows in Provence (it's much too hot to grow grass for them to eat). We tried everything from the bland, watery fromage frais to the buttery, runny, stinky sort. Each taste was enjoyed with a slice of French bread and either a spoonful of homemade olive, pesto and sundried tomato spreads or a touch of thick homemade jams – and of course, a healthy swig of full-bodied red wine. Every bite was delicious and further convinced us we were indeed in heaven.

Next up on our dégustation circuit was a tasting of olive oils from France, Spain and Greece. As olive lovers, we’ve always enjoyed the rich, unctuous quality of the fruit’s oil -- fish and vegetables cooked in it and pasta and bread dripping with it – but we never knew much about where it came from or how it was produced. Thanks to our sympa, knowledgeable prof, a passionate olive oil aficionado, we are now much wiser. He was a delightful man who pulled Joe and me aside after class to make sure we knew just how much he loves welcoming foreigners (and Americans in particular) to France and hearing them speak French. He was fascinated by our love for his country and his language and we did our best to be worthy diplomats and gracious students while expounding on our Francophilia.

A few factoids we learned: Spain Italy and Greece produce 75% of the world’s olive oil while France’s miniscule production level drops it towards the bottom of the list; there’s an International Olive Council (the IOC) based in Madrid, which defines and regulates the standards for olive oil production, much as the AOC body watches over French wine; olives, pits and all, are pressed to extract the oil; extra virgin olive oil is unrefined with no heat or chemicals added in the production process and has the highest levels of antioxidants; an olive oil marked “first cold press” means that the fruit was processed just once and at appropriately low temperatures since heat, while making extraction easier, actually degrades an oil’s quality. Our lovely, tasty late afternoon program turned into our dinner as we sampled the oils unaccompanied on a teeny spoon as well as coating a variety of breads, fruits and cheeses.

On our last full day in Aix, we signed on for a final Saturday field trip with a couple dozen fellow French students. We first stopped at Riez, a bustling little market town and former Roman community, for lunch supplies. Our bus then took us to the striking Gorges du Verdon, a deep, compact chasm at the bottom of which rushes beautiful, chalky turquoise water headed for the man-made Lac Sainte-Croix. The time available didn’t allow for more than an hour’s walk beside the lake, but we made a mental note to return someday for a substantial hike in the Gorges. A visit to the pilgrimage town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie built into a rocky cliff and famous for its faïenceceramics topped off the daytrip. Despite its beautiful vistas and charming character, it left me feeling terribly triste. After ascending and then coming back down the dramatic cliff stairway to its Notre Dame church, we said goodbye to the medieval village, as we would reluctantly say goodbye to Aix the following day.

The two-hour bus ride back home was a tough one. We’d been out in the sun all day, were parched and tired and with the physically and emotionally difficult task of packing up our month in Aix ahead of us that evening, we had little energy for levity. I’d been feeling somewhat melancholy since I’d closed the door on my last French class the day before and had to say goodbye to the school and teachers I so adored. Bidding farewell to Aix was going to take further toll on my already wistful state.  

My forehead against the sun-warmed bus window, I watched the parallel rows of dull lavender along the back roads of Provence pass one after the other with none of their luster left. The sun-soaked plants, those that hadn’t yet been harvested, had completely lost their royal purple hues, their tiny blooms faded to a tired gray. I related to their end of season torpor and felt a sadness rise from deep within. Less than two weeks of our Gap Year remained and I wondered, what comes next once you’ve been lucky enough to live out your dream? How do you manage to take the subsequent step? To find the energy to move towards whatever might ensue? I resolved on that long, hot bus ride back to Aix to simply focus on coming back to the lavender. Provence will always be there and yes, I will always come back. For more field trips. For more wine, more cheese, more olive oil. And certainly for more of the lavender.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

A Day in Our Life in Aix

The wealth of Aix was plentiful and varied: friendly people, a warm ambiance and relaxed culture, delicious food, plentiful wine, vibrant cafes, sophisticated restaurants, an abundant natural environment, exquisite art, elegant buildings, charming museums, Roman ruins, and thousands of years of history. But the standard script of our every day remained constant; our life in Aix was rewarding, sweet and simple.

Every morning at 5:45, we’re awakened by the chartreuse-uniformed workman who hoses down the rue Frédéric Mistral two floors below the bedroom window of our modern pied-à-terre. He power washes the street, as they do all over Aix, leaving it scrubbed and ready for the waves of day-tripping visitors that will soon swarm the town. Five minutes later, the church bells chime (inexplicably, at ten minutes before the hour) and I stumble out of bed while Joe sleeps in.

I put on the coffee, open the living room window and push open the heavy wooden shutters. Incessant birdsong greets me in the soft light of morning, the bold Provençal sun not yet having risen. I grab a yogurt from the fridge, sit down at the kitchen table, quickly check my emails and then review my homework for French class. I read what’s à la une -- in the headlines -- of L’Express online, find an interesting story I can share in class, carefully read it several times and scribble brief summary notes. By 7:30, the buzzing of the motocyclettes whizzing by on the street below has become consistent, marking the arousal of the waking city. I lean out the window, see that the sun has risen, creating sharp-lined shadows on the pale yellow walls and blue-gray shutters of the building juste en face – on the opposite side of the narrow street. By 8:00, Joe joins me for breakfast and we review our plans for the day.

At 8:40, I grab a water bottle and a piece of fruit and Joe walks me to school. It’s a beautiful walk and while we occasionally vary our route, we most often head straight across the Cours Mirabeau, through the Passage Agard that cuts through the row of golden hôtels particuliers and into the square of the Palais de Justice. We slowly weave our way through the open-air morning market, inhaling and ogling the irresistible offerings. We turn right on the rue Portalis which leads us to the Cours des Arts et Métiers and where I spend my mornings at IS Aix-en-Provence. The school is lodged in a two-storied building with tall thick-paned windows, small, cozy classrooms and creaky old wooden floors. Classes start at 9 and for the next three and a half hours I converse with my engaging teacher and nine interesting classmates. I revel in knowing I am the luckiest person in the world as I continue my French education.

On his way back to our apartment, Joe lingers in the markets, buying fresh produce from a list I’ve prepared and whatever else appeals to him. We’ll make our lunch from the bags of hand-wrapped goodies he’s brought home. On alternate days, he runs through Aix, doing his best to stick to the shaded parks including La Promenade de la Torse along the southeastern flank of town.

At 12:30 I say à demain to my teacher and classmates and head home, my head filled with new vocabulary and expressions I’m anxious to try on the locals. I amble down the pedestrian lanes and stop at our regular boulangerie to pick up une fournée, our new favorite variety of French bread. While all French baguettes are delicious, this particular loaf is made from whole-wheat flour, is especially crunchy on the outside and deliciously yeasty on the inside. Warm fournée tucked under my arm, I turn left down the rue Frédéric Mistral, ring the bell outside our apartment and Joe buzzes me in.

We spread out our lunch and dine deliciously on fresh Provençal fare as we fill in each other on our mornings. By this time the sun has climbed high in the sky, warming our unairconditioned space beyond comfort but our industrial strength fan manages to keep us cool.

Our afternoon itineraries vary but if there is no school excursion scheduled, they often include wandering around town to take in a museum, find a new park, watch the local men play boules or look for new, interesting restaurants. We pass by the luscious displays of fruit tarts and cream-filled pastries in pâtisserie windows (gorgeous to the eye but the way my palate swings, I more often yearn for creamy goat cheese on a toasted tartine). July is the month for huge clothing sales -- les soldes - in France, but since I have no more room in my suitcase and no more euros in my wallet, I can only fais du lèche-vitrine (window shop). I am so ready to burn my clothes, having worn the same things for 11 months, and I can barely even look at them no less put them on, but shopping will have to wait until we’re once again employed.

By late afternoon it’s time to slow down and we often stop at a Cours Mirabeau cafe to enjoy a cocktail and watch the parade of passersby. While I love the look of the brightly colored drinks (tinted with mint & grenadine syrups) the French enjoy over ice in summer, I have no desire to try them. We stick to sipping kirs or rosé to pass the time before dinner. The days are long with the sun burning late into the evening. It remains light until 10 pm so eating at 8:00 feels premature, even for early diners like us. There is never a rush while eating out in France – you essentially own your table’s real estate until you take your leave – and the bill is never presented until requested. And so we enjoy our dinners leisurely, accompanied by heartfelt conversation, always under the stars.

We stroll home, hand-in-hand, during l’heure bleue, that romantic French expression for the twilight time between day and night when it’s not yet dark but no longer light. The daily tourists have disappeared and the town is back in the hands of the locals and the very-lucky temporary residents. The marché nocturne -- the evening market – is in full swing, but we’ve done our shopping for the day and will save any new purchases for the following morning. We turn on the télé and watch an hour of les JO – les Jeux Olympiques – broadcast live from London. Yet again we hear the energized announcer pronounce Michael Phelps, with a thick French accent, “un champion exceptionnel!”

The sun sets on another day in our life in Aix. I watch the aerial evening dance of the swallows, take a moment and listen to the thin strains of their cries before I secure the shutters, drop into bed and close my eyes. It’s been one more day in paradise.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com