I sit down to my usual breakfast in the bright yellow walls and pastel furnishing of Nice’s hostel once more. This afternoon I would be happy to see the coast line from the heights of Easyjet’s window seat, as I travel back to London for Christmas. But this morning I am content to arrange my edible affaires: the unremarkable and pale corn flakes, the tea and orange juice, the blueberry and cranberry single-serving jams, and large pieces of white baguette. To my surprise, James walks around the corner with a slightly fatigued gate and stops mid-way as we smile at the circumstances of reuniting. We had said a final goodbye in Avignon over a week ago.
Archive for 2004
Grasse
The Marseille train station was unusually crowded, even for the week before Christmas. I would soon discover that there were technical difficulties on the line between the station and Nice and that no trains had departed eastward that morning. James would walk past me as I huddled over my pack but in the chaos of long lines, train whistles and announcements, he was lost among the crowd before my calls could reach his ears. I left Aix-en-Provence at 11:30, and after a delay in Marseille for three hours, several changes and more delays, I arrived in Nice at 18:30, ironically drained by the hours of waiting, the time spent doing nothing, and the irritation of the two. I was happy to count the seventy stairs to the fourth floor of Nice’s familiar youth hostel after cooking my own dinner in the kitchen on the ground floor.
Aix-en-Provence
Richard and Anita outside Cezanne’s studio.
Cezanne’s studio holds a tranquillity that reminds me of Monet’s garden in Giverny. The building sits shaded by trees near the top of a hill in Aix-en-Provence. After paying the discount student entrance fee, I climb the staircase to the first floor, noticing on the way the chipped light burgundy paint flaking off the walls in large dry leafs. The studio itself is spacious if only because it is not being used. The room is almost square with worn dark wood flooring and large north-west facing sheet windows. The air smells soft and round from the old fruit that lies unpainted. I wonder if the apples are sad to be the neglected the grandchildren of their famously documented forefathers!