Greece: Flashback 5 – The Wedding

I have to leave for the airport in about ten minutes, so no time to write about what I did in Paris yesterday. In the meantime - more Greece. This is almost the last one and it's a good one: a wedding! Babies! Fairy lights!

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The sun shone, the sky was blue … the wedding was held in the grounds of the Skiathos Princess hotel, out near the pool (lots of white chairs and umbrellas). They had constructed a kind of secular altar with a big hoop of flowers. All of the people in the wedding party had hot pink accents – pink flowers, pink ties, pink scarves. Simon was wearing a sharp suit and blue shoes!

We had a drink beforehand and then all went over to where the ceremony was to take place. Phaedra walked through the gardens holding her father’s arm with one hand and Hector with the other, followed by four grown up bridesmaids and two little ones – all the girls wearing flip flops!

The service was short, conducted by either the mayor or vice mayor of Skiathos with translation into English. There were some readings in English and Greek, the vows and that was pretty much that!

Cocktails and photos afterwards by the pool and then dinner in a kind of bar area by the beach. I say bar, but again, lots of white everywhere, a wooden floor, lots of fairy lights and coloured balloons everywhere, pink flowers on the tables. Lots of amazing Greek food, lots of wine – then the speeches.

I think tying for favourite moment of the wedding (with the entrance of the bride) was the end of Si’s speech. He had put together, with a graphic designer friend, a slideshow (except 5000 times better than any slideshow ever – more like a short film) consisting of pictures of Phaedra, playing to the tune ‘For Me, Formidable’ with words from the song superimposed over the pictures, like subtitles. The last few slides were photos of Hector and Simon wearing t-shirts that spelled ‘For Me, Formidable’. It was awfully sweet and I doubt I was the only one in tears.

And then there was dancing, more dancing (Greek and your standard wedding disco music), more wine, dessert, more dancing … I remember eating an ice cream about 2 in the morning and being very giggly with Georgie. Sunday stayed awake almost the whole time – she loved the music and dancing. It was a magical night.

Autumn Caught Up With Me

Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbr- … no, wait, that was a different story. Recently I was alerted to the dangers of moasting (thank you Derek, this is my new favourite word!) and at the risk of offending, I willl tell you that it was a real shock to my system to wake up in a cold and rainy Paris yesterday. (Quelle horreur: I had to leave the house in socks for the first time in over two months.) Paris is distinctly autumnal, but once I finally shrugged off the Monday morning blues and headed out I started to enjoy it.

I headed out in the direction of the Marais. I had lunch there with great people watching. Girls in Paris are wearing lots of bracelets and long chains round their necks. I very much liked two black outfits I saw: the first was a short dress with a long jacket, the second was a black trouser suit with a slouchy jacket worn – wait for it – with a turban.

Then I walked along by the river and scuffed some Autumn leaves.

Crossed over Pont Sully for the Musee de l’Histoire Naturelle – specifically the Grande Galerie de l’Evolution. I flashed my ICOM card (I love it so much!) and yes, it really works, and I didn’t have to pay in.

The GGdl’E is an excellent example of a Victorian-era museum recycling its collections and doing something fresh with them (National Museum of Ireland, please take note). It looks great:

I had seen lots of photos of these parading animals, but wasn’t disappointed by the real live version (so to speak). Content-wise was less impressed. I don’t think the quality of the interpretation matched the shininess of the displays.

I want displays whose style communicates something about their contents.

Across the street from the Museum was the Mosque of Paris, last visited in the company of Mary and Fan about, let me think, holy moly – six years ago. Anyway, I didn’t go to the hammam (though I would recommend it absolutely – it’s a unique experience but very refreshing to see women of all shapes and sizes wandering about completely starkers and completely relaxed – and the massages are excellent) but sat out in the courtyard and had a mint tea. Walked slowly along Boulevard St Germain and then over to the Rue de la Bucherie where I stuck my head into Shakespeare & Company. It was full of early 20-something Anglophones (Americans, Canadians and Australians) all saying ‘like’ a lot. I didn’t buy anything, though was sorely tempted by Miss Ranskill Comes Home, published by Persephone Books. Has anyone read it? Should I have bought it? But it was expensive and I know I could buy it for less in London.

Walked back to Rue Montorgeuil at dusk, wanting to curl up with a glass of wine and a good book. And that’s more or less what we did.

Sunday Miscellany

I’m writing this on the TGV to Paris. The train journey takes three hours and will bring me from the sunny, warm South to the colder, greyer North and a complete change of landscape. On the one hand, yay! Paris. On the other, I am very sad to be leaving Roisin, George and Gregory behind. Selected Hints for Aix will follow – but the Tip-Toppest Hint is go!

It should be pretty clear by now that I really liked Marseille. So instead of writing at length about the train (though I am on the top deck which I’ll admit is quite cool) I thought I’d revisit a Sunday we spent in Marseille two weeks ago.

At the recommendation of a colleague of R & G’s we drove into Marseille and followed the main road along the coast, along the corniche, with stunning views over the sea and the islands. We went almost as far as we could go, to Pointe Rouge, where the city suddenly gives way to a little fishing village.

The restaurant that we’d been told to go to was shut and the only other one had just one table left - inside. Lucky for us, the second restaurant (called ‘Au Bord de L’Eau) was excellent.

We shared a big plate of antipasti and then Roisin and I both had cod roasted in the pizza oven, with aioli on the side. By dessert time, the crowd had cleared a little and our waitress invited us to move to a table outside, by the beach. Profiteroles taste better with a tang of sea air.

We had our hair whipped by the wind afterwards when we went for a walk and Gregory did his best to fall off the rocks (don’t worry, George is too fast for him). I hadn’t been feeling that well from a mixture of a cold plus the medicine I took to counteract it, but the sun, sea and salt made me feel ready for anything. I could have stayed there for hours. I remembered the lines e. e. cummings wrote (from a poem I never much liked but this part has stayed in my head): For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

On Est à Marseille

There are many themed tourist trails around Provence. The Cezanne trail. The Picasso trail. The Mistral trail. The Van Gogh trail. I am on a Mary Stewart trail. (Did you know I was a huge fan?) Her first book, published in 1955, was Madam, Will You Talk?, whose lovely, witty, and beautifully-befrocked heroine drives around Provence being chased by a possibly murderous antique dealer. They play cat-and-mouse around Avignon (check), Les Baux (check) and Marseille – where Roisin and I went for the day yesterday.

Leaving Gare St Charles by way of its Nationally Significant Historic Napoleon III Steps, we walked down to the Vieux Port.

(Don't you love these postboxes?)

We had lunch at Les Arsenaulx – an antique bookshops/restaurant/salon de the (I wanted to move in) where I had, not bouillabaisse, but something very close: soupe de poisson de roche avec sa rouille et ses toasts.

Then Roisin had sea bass and I had pork. We finished with coffee which was served with mini meringues flavoured with orange flower water. These were especially good.

Needing to work off lunch, we headed for Le Corbusier’s Cité Radieuse. We trailed up a steep hill and when crossing at a pedestrian crossing at the top, Ro had an encounter with a guy on a motorbike. He told her she was dangereuse to step out into the road. After a bit of back and forth about how he was the dangerous one and he should have stopped (you should have heard her, she was very impressive) he concluded, ‘bah, on est à Marseille’ which seems to be what you say here when you’ve run out of arguments but you don’t want to admit you’re wrong. We then trailed down the other side of the hill and along an avenue towards Cité Radieuse. We had just realised that we were still a way away when we spotted a row of public bikes (don’t know what else to call them.) After a false start, we got two bikes and were soon careening along Avenue Prado. Oh the joy of ringing our little bells!

Got to Cité Radieuse – absolutely worth the walk/cycle. It was built in the late 1940s/early 1950s as public housing, but puts most council housing to shame.

From the lobby (which took us a little while to find – nothing is signed) we went up to the 9^th floor but couldn’t get on to the roof to see the swimming pool and running track. Had a drink on the terrace of the 3^rd floor hotel.

The detail is incredible. Le Corbusier thought of everything: stairs, chairs, doors, toilets. Ro bent the truth slightly and told the receptionist/barman/waiter that I was a student of architecture so he showed us a couple of the hotel bedrooms – the same as the original bedrooms of the apartments. Everywhere you look you can see evidence of Le Corbusier’s total obsession with the right angle.

Back along Avenue Prado and up a hill and another hill. By the third hill I was off the bike and pushing – though that was nearly worse because the bike weighs a ton. By the time Notre Dame de la Garde was in sight I wanted to varmint into the front basket. But we persevered (Roisin’s epitaph will be ‘we’ve come this far, we might as well go on’. Mine will be ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’.) From the basilica the whole city is spread out beneath you.

It is beautiful. This came as a surprise to me – I wasn’t expecting Marseille to be so lovely. It is both quintessentially French and unlike any French city I’ve ever been to. It has the tall, narrow buildings with wrought iron details like Paris, but with the blue blue of the Mediterranean, the white of the building stone, the Arab/African influence.

Notre Dame de la Garde is full of ex-votos/thank yous left by sailors. My favourites were the strings of boat/ship models suspended from the ceiling. I really wanted these to take home with me. Look how sweet they are:

(This is Roisin just before we pointed our bikes downhill.)

We freewheeled all the way down the hill (I squealed ‘whee’ all the way down) to the port. Parked the bikes then got a metro back to the station, where we bought snacks to eat on the train. A perfect day - the only slight disappointment was that there were no handsome possibly murderous antique dealers waiting for me by the ferry terminal for the Ile d’If. I’ll wait here while you run out to the bookshop and buy yourself a copy of Madam, Will You Talk?

I Need to Take Up Knitting

In A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains by Isabella Bird, there’s one passage that I have read over and over in absolute wonder and disbelief. The background is that IB is trying to get to Estes Park, Colorado, but gets stranded in a place called Canyon with a family of settlers who all think she’s nutty (I do love IB, but they might have a point). She’s miles from civilization with no way to travel except her own two feet. She writes to her sister:

“When the buggy disappeared I felt as if I had cut the bridge behind me. I sat down and knitted for some time – my usual resource under discouraging circumstances. I really did not know how I should get on. There was no table, no bed, no basin, no towel, no glass, no window, no fastening on the door. The roof was in holes, the logs were unchinked, and one end of the cabin was partially removed!”

And she sits down and knits.

The contrast between her bleak surroundings and her prosaic activity makes me laugh… what would be the modern equivalent? If I find myself stranded somewhere, should I play solitaire on my computer for a while (until the battery runs out, of course)?

The knitting seems to have the desired effect though, because Isabella goes on to write that, afterwards, she picked herself up and got to work making the cabin habitable. So perhaps there's some sense in it after all.

PS She does eventually make it to Estes Park, but that’s another story.

Cathedrale D’Images

I’m trying to be very diligent about posting every day – every morning if I can. But this morning I was busy getting a French haircut. I will try to get one of my relations to take a photo at some point. I miss my London hairdresser (the brownies! the wine!) and think she did a much better job of the colour (for those keeping score) but getting my hair cut in France was certainly an experience. The guy cutting it asked me if I wanted it to be ‘enfile’ … I said yes, not being entirely sure what that was (thinking of ‘enfilade’) but it meant slicing along the sides with the blades of scissors. Anyway, it looks very chic – although by tomorrow morning will doubtlessly be back to its usual all-over-the-place self.

But back to our sheep as they say around here.

The Cathedrale d’Images is a son et lumiere experience in a former limestone quarry, often talked about by one of my former colleagues. To be honest, I wasn’t that bothered about going to see it, but he spoke of it so enthusiastically and since I was there, I decided to stop by. I’m glad I did - it really is a magical experience.

Each year the show has a different theme; this year’s was Picasso. I’ll admit that when I saw this it did nothing for my enthusiasm levels (I was feeling Picassoed out), but I was wrong.

The entrance to the quarry does, in fact, look like a church, and all of the ‘chambers’ have very grandiose names.

On entering, you walk along a dark, cold passage and hear the music and then see the first images appearing on the rocks.

(By the way, it took me a while to figure out the best setting on my camera so some of the pictures are a bit blurry - it was very dark in there.)

There really is something quite magical about the way the images come to life on the rock walls – it puts you in mind of cave paintings at La Tene and Lascaux – especially when I saw these:

I loved the details that were highlighted and the themes – for example, Picasso’s women:

The music was brilliantly chosen and worked perfectly with the images. It ranged from Carmen to jazz to atonal harmonics. There was something, too, about seeing even familiar images repeated on such a large scale that made me appreciate them in a new way.

(I loved these two old boys who stayed leaning against the wall the whole time I was there.)

I read that the mind behind the Cathedrale, Albert Plecy, was fascinated by the Image Totale – the idea that when the viewer becomes integrated in an image she gets a whole new understanding of it.

What can I say except to give it my ultimate accolade (this as someone who rarely has to pay entrance for museums/exhibitions/’spectacles’) – it was absolutely and completely worth the price of admission. And I don’t say that very often.

(Self portrait by Eithne, with background by Picasso.)

‘P’ is for Provence, ‘Y’ is for Yummy

One day later than planned, I set off on my road trip. (Does it count as a road trip if it’s only 100km each way? Well it’s the spirit of the thing that counts). The itinerary: St Remy de Provence and Les Baux.

It was a beautiful autumn morning – a little bit misty as I left Aix behind on the Autoroute du Soleil, but promising to be hot. I exited the A7 at Cavaillon and took the D99 to St Remy. I’m offering the geographical detail because the D99 is a picture perfect French road. It is lined with plane trees whose top branches reach over to touch the trees on the other side. (You can see the trees in the wing mirror.)

I arrived in St Remy at 10, found a free parking space (good omen!) and walked into the centre of the small town. There were many signs warning of taureaux, but there were no bulls running while I was there.

St Remy is very pretty – like Aix, it does a very nice line in expensive shops, but it’s much, much smaller and the stone – which I think gives the character to the town – is pale yellowy grey in contrast with the orange-yellow of Aix. I walked through the little streets with no particular plan in mind but was pleased when I passed the house where Nostradamus was born.

(I'm not exactly sure why I like this image so much - I just do!)

I had good coffee and an excellent croissant at the Café des Arts and a quick flick through the guidebook told me that one of the best chocolate-makers in France (or perhaps in the world?) has a shop in St Remy.

I didn’t set out with the intention of going to this shop, but as it was there and so was I, I thought it would be negligent not to visit it. Well, it was nothing special.

Yes of course I’m joking. Oh, my dears. Joel Durand has conceived a whole Alphabet des Chocolats. Each letter corresponds to a different flavour and I spent a very happy while working through the alphabet as I made a selection to take away. I tasted ‘V’ for violet, ‘U’ for Szechwan pepper, but the one that knocked my socks off was ‘P’ for Provence – filled with a tapenade of Provencal almonds and black olives. I’m not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that, afterwards, I bounced down the street promising to be a better person because there is such goodness in the world. Just to crown the moment, there was a woman standing on a traffic island outside belting out Edith Piaf songs.

Since nothing could add to my St Remy experience, it was time to head to Les Baux. Les Baux is a medieval fortified town hanging from a cliff in the Alpilles. It is crammed full of tourists, though I imagine my experience was pretty quiet compared with, say, a Saturday in July. Though touristy, it is interesting. It is petrified (pun not entirely intended) in the sense that it isn’t really a living town any more. But you do get a feel for what it might have been like two, three or five hundred years ago. Staggering views down to wide stretches of olive trees in the valley below.

With it being Tourist Central, I wasn’t expecting anything special for lunch. But at the Café des Baux (lured in by the sign that proclaimed the chef as winner of the prize for best desserts in France – not sure if this is a real prize or a pretend one) I had an excellent formule. First of all I had a feuillete de volaille: pastry stuffed with chicken and tapenade, accompanied by rosemary-flavoured pommes dauphinoises, ratatouille and a roast tomato. Then I had a clafoutis with plum and apple and a café.

I rolled down the hill back to the car and headed to the Cathedrale des Images just down the road. This, I think, deserves its own entry – tomorrow!

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Later.

Ro and I have just sampled ‘F’ (Corsican honey) and ‘R’ (rosemary). Weak at the knees.