To get to Aix (pronounced Ex), we had to change trains in Marseilles. The ride there was the smoothest of all the trains so far. Marseilles has a reputation for crime, especially toward tourists, so we expected to see gangs of gypsies or otherwise-looking cutthroats lurking behind the columns in a dark and dingy train station. To our surprise, the Gare was the nicest, brightest, and most cheerful one we’d been in so far. Rather than being haunted by pirates, it seemed to glow with the light of Provence that inspired Cezanne.
We rode the train to Aix with three young modern pirates – those w
ho do graffiti on public places. The conductor caught the boy who sat across the aisle from us apparently doing graffiti, but she didn’t take the wide-nibbed felt pen away. After she walked to the next car, the boy tossed the pen to an older boy who wrote on the wall where he was sitting, hiding the work behind his jacket. His girlfriend smirked as he was doing it, so Mary and I knew what was happening. The conductor didn’t return, and the train was arriving in Aix. As we all stood up, I pointed to the graffiti, and then wagged my finger (index) at the boy and said in my stern substitute teacher voice, “Ce n’est pas bon!” To his credit, he looked a bit, just a bit, embarrassed. Not apologetic, just embarrassed. (The picture is not of the train graffiti, but from elsewhere in France.)
Out on the platform, it looked as if we would have to walk down a lot of stairs, and then up. With our backpacks, we didn’t want to walk stairs, so we found an elevator. Just after we got in, a fellow with a bicycle decided there was room for him to join us. As he was squeezing his bicycle in, Mary was being shoved backwards but her feet were stuck in place.
“Help me!” she cried, holding out her hands as she sank lower and lower, gasping for air. It took the man a few seconds to see what had happened and pull her upright.
Then the elevator opened and we backed out, finding ourselves high up in the air on a catwalk over the tracks. At least all we had to do was walk down the steps and not up.
We got a map from the Office du Tourisme and started walking down Mirabeau street, said to be the most beautiful in the world. Not so! The trees are lovely, the shops are OK, but there are too many noisy cars and motorscooters to make it peaceful. When we turned off it into the old town, though, things improved.
Our route took us by a Patisserie, our favorite place to visit. Out front, looking at the display of delicious-looking cookies, the self-proclaimed “smartest man in the world” explained that some of the cookies, the sables (with accented e making it sa-blay) were of arab origin. We bought a few to share, then I added on a huge macaroon and a lemon tart. It was, after all, my duty to compare lemon tarts across France. This one ranked below Paris and the Amboise one
with meringue, but above all the others. The macaroon was exquisite.
We stayed at the low-budget Hotel des Arts and liked it more than the forgettable Hotel Concorde in Nimes. The room was not bigger, nor did it have a better window. In fact, the window folded down like a vent and had no curtain – but I doubt that the people across the way with the flower-filled window would want to peek at a couple of old ladies. The good points were that the wood was all painted and the toilet did not leak. It’s too bad that Americans have practically mandated in-room facilities. Much nicer to walk down the hall and not be bothered with having one in your room with the attendant noises and, yes, smells.
That evening we walked the "Cezanne circuit," following symbols imbedded in the sidewalks and thus seeing most of the great old buildings and churches in the old town. Aix was Cezanne's home town and favorite place.
The next day our train to Lyons was at 2:55, so after shopping for breakfast/lunch at
the outdoor market (cheese, bread, fruit), and waiting for Mary to look at everything and finally buy a zipper purse (one big zipper zips up to make a purse), we came back for our backpacks and headed to the Granet museum.
On the way we passed the school where my daughter-in-law spent a year learning French while staying with a local family. L’Hotel Maynier d’Oppede (or close). Learning to speak in France, she has a perfect accent as she teaches at the high school where I sub.
We had to sit on the steps outside for a half hour waiting for the museum to open. A gypsy woman and two or three little children were nearby. Soon I was looking into dark beautiful eyes of a shy young girl who held out her hand in the universal plea for alms. These people are everywhere, calmly sitting on the sidewalks holding out their hands. As you pass without giving, they softly say something nice to you, like (in French) “Have a good day,” or “May the Lord bless you.”
I had no change for her and doubt I would have given her money, but I showed her my just-purchased apple and offered it. She shook her head then ran back to her mother. A discussion went on between them, and soon the little heartbreaker was back saying, “Oui. La pomme.” So I gave it to her, happy in my heart to do so.
Soon I was to find myself saving out change to give to these people, one a day. Big spender.
We had to rush through the museum, but that was possible since the wonderful people selling tickets also took our backpacks to a safe place. Free of them, we were able to see a lot.
If you’re in Aix, go to the Granet! The rooms are laid out by themes, which lets you discover things you ordinarily don’t think about. One room had paintings of children’s games; another was all about Mary Magdalene. In another, various artists had sculpted the same person, so we got to compare noses and eyes, seeing that to one artist, the man had an upturned nose whereas the other thought it was a downward-tending French nose. Since I’ve tried for years, unsuccessfully, to draw real faces, it was heartening to see that good artists mess up also. Which of the several treatments was the most faithful to the model? We’ll never know.
At top speed, we saw a good part of the museum, then trotted off to the Gare where our trip to Lyon almost started in disaster.
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