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French Men

Beyond Blonde
May 20, 2016
2 min read

The soft New York saxophone jazz completing Woody Allen's latest film "Cafe Society" followed me out of the Cinema Renoir and on to the Cours Mirabeau this evening. In doing so it blended into the soft golden glow of a Provencale Spring evening and as I walked leisurely past the Mossy Fountain, the jazz followed me past Les Deux Garcons courtesy of the ensemble playing out the front. I smiled. Relaxed and knowing the direction to go, I ambled back to the Hotel Cardinal, my own little apartment in Aix.

The fresh produce stores were packing up and in their place, the bars and bistros were bringing out their little tables for two, complete with checkered clothes, the smell of cigarette smoke and the clink of glasses. Day was clearly transitioning into evening. Back at my apartment I kicked off my shoes and opened up the french doors to the garden. The tinkle of water welcomed me along with the dappled light and verdant green. My pigeons welcomed me home or perhaps it was just after one night they knew I would feed them morsels from my plate. In impossibly french manner, I saw them kissing in the shade.

Salmon quiche from the boulangerie and a glass ( well two actually) from the bottle of last nights champagne and I sat with the pigeons in my little courtyard and had dinner. Joe Cocker sang to me of Time In A Bottle and as I dipped my second strawberry into the champagne I decided there was no finer dessert on earth nor time.

I have walked miles today - actually 14609 steps. The main stretch was through Aix to the Aterlier Cezanne though in the morning I had toured the Museum Garnet and the Church St Jean Malte which sits outside my kitchen window. The day was made for walking. Clear and bright the blue sky beckoned me out and away from my kitchen window where I could have stood and watched the world go by all day.

A cheeky Frenchman smiled at me today at the Museum Garnet - his eyes shone and held mine for a fraction too long, seductively. Shame he was a portrait and the flesh and blood of the man himself long gone. Dressed in satin and incongruously playing the bagpipes he nonetheless stopped me in my tracks. I smiled back.

The Atelier Cezanne is a strange mix of home and museum. The main focus is the artist's studio - a room bathed in light from large windows on nearly every side, the painter's easel and smock still there. The table set as if Paul Cezanne had just stood up to fetch another glass of wine. Outside the garden was cool and green. Little birds chirped and it was all one could hear as I sat with Paul as a companion. Another fantasy companion but a welcome one.