The minstral wind struck the tempermental citizens of Aix into depression today. Even Monsieur Tissot’s educational libido was off. Grim visages marched the rue in unsolicited boots and scarves. The day was dreary, and perfectly romantic.
I’ve noticed that the French of Provence engage in a ménage-a-trois with the weather, fashion, and their contentment. Most people dress extraordinarily weather appropriate, somehow à la mode. Whereas Pittsburghians bolt out of their Ugz and Panther-paw sweatpants into sandals and nakedness at the first mention of sun from the relentless winter, France deals with each shift of degree like a new season. “You’re right, Frenchmen, today doesn’t really warrant gloves, but certainly a uniquely tied scarf might work.” I am constantly the only person failing to remember an umbrella, and I’m certain it’s biological inferiority.
This afternoon the youth and beauty brigade went for un café crème at “our new place”, a cozy hole in the wall that serves scones handmade by with-it > 75 year olds. They don’t mind if you talk dirty while they’re playing a very serious game of chess because they can neither understand nor hear you. Loves it.
Madot leaves tomorrow morning, and I must confess, I’ll miss the kook. I’ll miss her compulsive cleaning, her compulsive feeding me, her compulsive cleaning a fed me and feeding a clean me.
Jusqu'à demain.
Friday, March 7, 2008
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