2012_07_06 Southern France

July 6, 2012 Alexa reported
nearly a month abroad..

Not yet robbed, ill or arrested! In fact despite the flies and tricky laptops, 

I found myself in Paradise, better known as Southern France.

I hadn't walked through a field of wheat (hello, cottontails and poppies!) in 30 years since picking wild oats near Cambridge, England. Best job I ever had, (picking grapes in France comes in second.)

To recapitulate, after a wonderful stay with Anabel in Bilbao (one of you knew the Kurt Weill song as 'that old Bill Bailey Moon'!) I took a local train through the Basque country to San Sebastian (Donostia) for a bittersweet reunion with my travelling companion of thirty-some years ago. I fell into his routine of tea, a walk, lunch at a cafe nearby, siesta, walk, soccer or a film on telly, but no pictures taken. 

Our quest became to find the missing cable to download pictures. Just this morning is that job done and my pal Barbara will load them on a blog she created for me calling me Lady Alexa Alexa.Ross.blogspot.ca/

San Sebastian has a lovely seaside promenade and a red carpet film festival. His energetic younger sister, an English teacher, gave me a tour of the old town and harbor and lamented that the European economic crisis has delayed her retirement.

"You don't remember that?" my host would ask me, between cigarette puffs, so I had him make a list of the countries we passed through in 1978. There are 19! We toured North Africa and Greece, flew to Bombay and after three months in India returned to the West overland, just before the fall of Afghanistan to the Russians.  Though younger than me, he feels too old to travel anymore. I must return on the way back for photos and auld lang syne.

He and his sister drove me the 20 kilometers to France, to the Hendaye train station where Franco and Hitler met.

The train would arrive in Marseille at 5.30 AM. A young Moroccan promised to wake me up, but then I couldn't get rid of him. On learning of my widowhood, he felt obliged to kiss me on both cheeks. (This is a very popular custom from Portugal to France.) 

I had started an early detective novel of my host's by Wilkie Collins, a pal of Dickens' this English major never heard of. The Moonstone was a  bit tedious but preferable to the attentions of the Moroccan.  At last someone with a reservation claimed the seat next to me and I was free! And he never did come back to wake me up.

Since my host is computer-free, I had to rent one several times to check on my Couchsurfing appointments and missed the reply of my Marseille hostess with directions, address and phone number. At the station, it was McDonald's that had Internet but not until 8 am so I took a 6:25 AM bus to my next hostess, who was due to leave on a camping holiday in a few days.

The bus left me at the center of Trets. I bought a loaf of whole grain bread at the Boulangerie and asked about a public phone. (You need a different cell phone SIMS card for every country.) I was directed to a bar/tabac where the waitress handed me her phone and I woke up Maryannick, my next Couchsurfing hostess, a prehistoric archaeologist on break. 

Ebullient and welcoming, she rustled up tea and coffee and shared my bread with blueberry confiture. Her large unfinished house among the wheat fields was once a garage. The flies and disorder were impressive, but her jolly attitude made me feel right at home. I found a new hobby, swatting flies.

Her daughter's school gave a concert that afternoon and I met Yoanth, 12, and Chloe, 10, whose HELLO KITTY bedroom I would occupy, her depressed ex, and her plump LOVER as she called him with two sons of his own. In vain I waited for "Au Clair de la Lune, Mon Ami Pierrot" or "A la claire Fontaine..." from my childhood in a French school fifty plus years ago.

That night, a dip in the above ground pool. Sorry to report, plastic bottled water was the only option. But recycling is institutionalized with permanent public containers on every street.

The next day we shopped at my favorite supermarket, ALDI's, then I met her two sisters in the house she grew up in, passing gypsy caravan encampments en route.

That night, a birthday celebration for the LOVER's ten year old who still wears diapers to bed, then to the town for a fireworks celebration featuring a Commedia del Arte troupe who acted out Mafia and Christian dramas between and among the explosions.

The next day there was a town-wide flea market they rose at five to prepare for, and after some shopping I took the bus to Aix en Provence and met a busload of tourists from Thailand! There were stalls under tents along the boulevard selling soap, essence of lavender, paintings, and the Musee Granet had free admission. Enjoy the photos!

Maryannick and her families left to camp by a river and her two young lodgers uploaded my pictures on Dropbox and showed me how the curious European stoves work. We met later for an aperitif which turned into a long party. I sat in the beautiful countryside with all my new friends and thought only thanks to Couchsurfing do I experience this.

Then it was back to Marseille and Lidia, a tour guide from Chile with a sweet flat in the heart of the Arab neighborhood. She produced a map and directed me to the old port and a place to buy my next ticket to Nancy.

Marseille is the oldest town in Europe, with Roman ruins. I walked around the rectangular port, ferried to the other side and watched an outdoor dance rehearsal. That night we took a tram to a hilltop park for a French recreation of the Blues Brothers and Aretha Franklin. I asked how the national anthem came to be called the Marseillaise and she said a few people started walking to Paris singing it and gathered people along the way and a huge crowd arrived to the capital and thus it is known as La Marseillaise! The lyrics are quite bloody.

My last day at Lidia'a advice, I took a boat past the beaches and walked back along the botanical garden. There were signs, Soyez Prudent (Be Wise). I ate at a cheap Moroccan restaurant and explored the medieval quarter but was too exhausted to join Couchsurfing activities on the beach, with a 5 am wake-up call and a 20 minute uphill slog to the station for my train. I tend to mispronounce war for station (guerre pour gare) and Lidia warned me not to ask an Arab where the war was!