Aix-en-Provence
Getaway Weekend
I let my fingers brush through the array of fabrics and soaps as I walked through the markets of Aix-en-Provence. A ray of sun, the first I’d seen in a few weeks due to a gloomy Paris, wove its way through the trees and buildings to warm my face.
Last weekend, I found myself on a little getaway to Aix, a town dating back to pre-Roman times, with the architecture and culture to show for it. Your favorite protagonist, severely sleep-deprived, spent the day exploring the town, letting herself get lost in the winding roads and cobblestone alleys.
After having wandered sufficiently for the time being, and growing drowsier with every passing second due to an ill-timed Melatonin, I scouted the nearest cafe for a little rest. Like a cat curled on a windowsill, I curled up at a cafe, beer and book in hand (burger pending), positioned strategically in a puddle of sunlight.
That night I took myself out for dinner, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of this new place. I settled into a cozy and dim Italian restaurant, a candle illuminating the twists and turns of my book.
The Market
The next day, I got up early and made my way through the maze of markets the town had become. I meandered, taking my time. Every street was filled to the brim with vendors, greeted cheerily by their regulars. Fresh honey, made golden by the sunlight, sat patiently waiting to be claimed. Fresh fruit and flowers competed for the best colors of the season while jewelry glittered becomingly. Being at a market is such a different experience than going to a store.
As someone who grew up in the convenience of Target, I was frustrated when I first arrived in France. Can you believe people actually have to go to different stores for different things? An electronic store for electronics, a grocery store for groceries, and a pharmacy for medicine. Where was the one-stop shop I had grown up with?
I’ve learned, however, that sometimes, it’s nice to swap out convenience for connection.
A piece of art from a local Spaniard artist, a handmade soap bar from the girl taking over her family’s trade, an antique bracelet from the woman with a story, an apple from the man with a farm just over the hill.
I spent the rest of the day with my nose buried in art. Flitting around from studios to museums, I drank in the inspiration of Cezanne’s studio and Picasso’s paintings, the strokes etched in my brain.
As dusk settled over the mountains, I said goodbye to the little town with the beautiful markets as the lavender fields went by.
Today, I sit in my local coffee shop, having just come from a little market in Paris, some new goodies and stories in tow.
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