Postcards from Tiny Towns, Part 1

I have been fortunate enough ever since my arrival in Aix-en-Provence to do a little travelling around the region, both with groups of international students and on my own. As a result, I have seen some absolutely breathtaking sights and have officially decided that France is my third home... after San Diego and Boston, of course. This entry is going to be, essentially, a two-parter. This first part is going to be dedicated to the various tiny tours I passed though and visited throughout my journeys. The second part will chronicle larger towns where I might or might not have spent a little more time, depending on the situation. From the beginning!

Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer


I came to this small city during a tour of three different, but culturally prominent, cities in Provence with other international students. I spent all of two hours here, but I had fun nevertheless and am of the mind that anywhere with a beach is a fabulous place to live.

Nevermind that this is a continent and an ocean away from San Diego - this felt like home.

While there, I stopped by the église des Saintes Maries, which is now a pilgrimage destination for Roma who gather yearly in this town to celebrate Saint Sarah. She receives even more attention than the three Marys for whom the town is named, and, to top it all off, Sarah was supposedly the dark-skinned Egyptian servant of the three Marys in one account, a charitable Gypsy woman in another, and the daughter of Jesus and Mary Magdalene in a third. Anyway you look at it, she must have had a pretty interesting life, and at one point definitely appeared to have lived in the Camargue, the marshy delta of the Rhône.

Pictured: One mysterious woman

Eventually, she was adopted as the saint of the Roma, and now people from far and wide come to visit her shrine Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, where she supposedly lived with the Three Marys.

Gratuitous photo of votive candles

This place becomes more interesting the more I read about it. Supposedly, it has a population of about 2500 (so, roughly one very overstuffed Wellesley College) that swells to 50,000 during the summer holidays. In other words, the population is twenty times as large in the summer. That is like turning Wellesley into two UCSD campuses. Where do they put these 48,000 people, I wonder? Does everyone and their brother have a nice summer cottage in SMDLM where they escape to in the month of August? The main industry is, not surprisingly, tourism, with agriculture coming in a secure second thanks to the surrounding Camargue, so I assume everyone must lie around on the beach in the summer and write postcards to all the suckers stuck at home while thanking Saint Sarah for being awesome.

Haha, suckaaahhhhs!!!

Les Baux-de-Provence


Which is more impressive:

the battering ram

the catapults

or the castle ruins of this commune tucked away in the mountains of the Bouches-du-Rhône department in Provence?

Well, consider this: The lords of Baux were powerful medieval feudal lords who spent years vying for control of Provence. Even once they had been deposed in the 12th century, the court at the Château des Baux-de-Provence continued to be famous for its culture and chivalry. In 1632, its Protestant owners led an unsuccessful revolt against the very Catholic crown, and Cardinal Richelieu, better known as Tim Curry, ordered that the place be dismantled. What you see there today is a result of that dismantling.

These days, nothing as badass as having the wrath of Tim Curry rain down upon you happens in Les Baux, but there are plenty of tourist shops and a multitude of olive groves in the valley below that render the commune one of the most picturesque towns ever.

And with some of the best tapenade around

Oh, and they have catapult reenactments every day in the summer.

My memories of this town are mostly a blur of tiny winding streets uphill and a series of highly eloquent comments such as "whoa" and "awesome" that I traded with my friend Clare as we climbed the heights of the castle. I certainly didn't see any catapult reenactments. But as I looked out over what should really be considered a village hidden away in the mountains, I found myself wondering, and not for the first time since August 21, what it might be like to set up residence in a small city in France. Sure, it may depend on tourism and olives for its business, but Les Baux is still gorgeous and old and people lower down from the summit had outdoor swimming pools, and dammit, now I don't know where in France I'd like to have my summer home.

Cassis

When I think of Cassis, I think of two things, rocky beaches and Milka cows.

And with good reason.

Another French commune, Cassis is known mostly for its cliffs and the "calanques," or sheltered inlets, that run between there and Marseille, which is just a bit to the west.

I visited this village with the other students in my program as part of an organized weekend excursion that WIA puts together every now and again so that we don't forget how freakishly pretty France is.

As if we needed reminding.

Upon our arrival in Cassis, we were taken on a boat tour of the calanques, which lasted about an hour or so, and had to be one of the most amusing boat rides in the world. Being the impressionable, eager 20 years old that we all are, as soon as we stepped foot onto the tour boat, we raced to the seating up front, as close to the bow as possible. After all, what is a trip around the Mediterranean coast if you can't have a good view? The ride started out smoothly enough as we edge out around the lighthouse ("le phare") and out of the bay into the Mediterranean proper. But this was when the wind, which had been whipping out steadily since our arrival, came into play like Nymphadora Tonks in a Swarovski boutique - that is to say, in a rather ungraceful manner.

The wind, of course, helped to make the water of the sea choppier than usual, and the little boat that we were on was truly doing its best to not submerge us all in the chilly saltwater. So, predictably, we were all frequently sprayed with sea water every time the boat dipped over a wave. This meant that I was having the time of my life, grinning gleefully from ear to ear, giggling joyously at each new splash of water, even when one or two managed to catch me off guard and send little drops of water down my shirt. Some of us on the trip were less than completely satisfied with the cold water splashing down on us, but they rallied their spirits and made the best of the situation. Which really wasn't hard to do because all one had to do was look five feet in front of their nose and forget that anything else existed.

Summer Home 1 of 26 in France

The calanques, with their calmer waters, fantastically white and rocky cliffs, and impressive hiking paths, made for an excellent welcome to the tiny city. And the water itself!

Never have I seen water so blue, so clear, so pristine in my life! One could look down and see the blue, iridescent fish swimming alongside the boat. Snorkeling, in warmer months, would actually be an a sightseeing adventure, and not a test of one's eyesight in low light. The last time I had seen water than even approached this clarity was when I was fifteen and went snorkeling for a day a ways off the coast of Mexico near this rocky mound that jutted out of the ocean. Even that couldn't quite live up to this, though, and this was right off shore! So, of course, I had to go swimming.

Why can't all water look like this?

Fast-forward half an hour later, after examining the logistics of changing into one's bathing suit at a French beach where bare breasts are alright, but baring all in front of people I have to live with and see on a regular basis is mortifying at best. I dipped my feet into the water. A tad chilly, but totally doable, I told myself, and at a friend's urging, fully submerged my body in the water.

Bad idea. I began to gasp for the air that jettisoned itself from my lungs upon the realization of just how cold the water really was and scurried back out to the edge of the water where I could sit and let the water wash over me and slowly acclimate me to my new, wet surroundings. Finally, I swam out to join my friends and discovered a whole new level of buoyancy. I don't think I had ever floated so effortlessly in my life - I could literally just sit in the water and do no work whatsoever and remain afloat. It was fantastic, even if on the chilly side.

These rocks have no idea how good they've got things

Some time later, after I had laid out in the sun for a bit and dried off and changed back into appropriate attire and had my fill of some delicious gelato, a significantly sized group of us noticed a man dressed in a purple cow suit some meters down the beach from where we were resting.

Enter the Milka cow.

Is that useful for saving lives or are you just happy to see me?

They were filming a commercial of the Milka cow and a attractive man in a matching purple Speedo running down the beach together Baywatch style. In French.

Day = made.

Tootles for now. Peace, love, and purple cows!

--Rachel