Author: Heather Robinson

Red sky at night

The Mistral winds were predicted to reach up to 130 kilometers per hour today. “We have never had 130!” I exclaimed to Remi with just a tiiiny bit of anxiety rising in my voice. “Yes, we have,” he responded without missing a beat, “on the night when we first arrived.” 
It was 1am. Remi had driven the 20 meters-cubed truck – packed to the gills with all of our belongings – down from Paris in 8 hours. We both were so exhausted from the day that we were nearly stuck after having taken a wrong way turn on a one way street in Arles. Our nerves were beyond shot and then we realized that there was no way that he was going to be able to back the truck into the tiny street in front of our house. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or to cry. As a saving gift from the gods, there was one parking space available left in the nearby lot. We took it, grabbed our Buddha, locked the truck and prayed for the best. 
At the first step we were blasted backwards. I started to lose my footing until Remi grabbed my arm. A patrolling police car passed at that moment and we flagged them down, first to ask if they thought that the truck would be all right (“Not for long” was the reply) then to enquire if the force of the wind was normal. I remember that the police man shrugged and said, “Welcome to Arles” but that might be my memory playing games. We found that the hood of the truck had been ripped off from the roof the next morning. No one in Paris believed us when we told them it had been done by the wind.
Tonight, I can hear the Mistral breathing. At the equivalent of 81 miles per hour, it is roaring well past the minimum wind speed of a hurricane. There have been warnings at niveau orange through several regions in the South on the national news. Remi kindly took the dogs out this evening and the house is closed up tight.  Red sky at night? It may be a sailor’s delight but this landlubber will admire it from afar. Safe and sound, yes but I am also respectful of nature, always.

The comfort of a long lunch à la française – Nimes

We are most certainly in the heart of winter here in Provence. 
Today, it even snowed! Well, actually, five flakes drifted down languorously and evaporated before touching ground but it made me giddy with delight.
Everything has slowed down to a muffled shoestring shuffle. We are striding the polar opposite of those days when friends would pop over for a glass of rosé at 6pm and take their leave with the coucher de soleil at 10. But they will return, those moments in the sun.
And the friends are still around, although admittedly no one much wants to move beyond the earth of their well-stoked fires. So it was with not a little joy that we voyaged beyond our comfort zone to see our dear friends M and B in Nimes. 
They had invited us for brunch. Now, while M and B are always gracious hosts, it was an offer that I was sniffingly suspicious of as my experience of that preferred repas in France amounted to a dingly croissant, an egg and two slices of iffy ham, all for the price of a Michelin-starred meal. 
That is not exactly what this ex-New Yorker prefers. How I miss my brunches replete with spicy Bloody Mary’s, eggs florentine and crunchy rosemary potatoes while the disco in the background would ramp up my spirits after a night when sleep had been at a minimum. Dancing on the table has been known to happen at such joints as The Vynl in Hell’s Kitchen, yes, even on a Sunday morning.
And while our friends didn’t exactly have that in mind, I certainly needn’t have worried (or snobbified to be more accurate!). Remi and I were welcomed warmly into M & B’s Haussmannian style apartment, where sunlight dappled across a white linen dressed table heaving with platters of charcuterie. A bit of Bach flowed in from the next room. M was in the kitchen pressing blood oranges into fresh juice and a samovar was lit on the table to keep the water warm for tea. I chose a thé beurre au caramel salé and sipped it as we settled in.
We were six at table and the conversation bubbled around me, happily, unselfconsciously. As I always seem to write about my time with them, I feel comfortable enough in their company that I can partake in the luxury of listening, having nothing to prove. And that kind of calm is not something to ever take for granted in an expat life.
B prepared ouefs cocotte in a timed steamer that she had inherited from her Grandmother. I love that gesture of tapping the eggshell with the knife and then lifting off its tiny roof as the warm perfume of the yoke rises. An earthy baguette aux céréales was perfect for dipping as well as being smeared with butter to accompany radishes dipped in hibiscus salt. Remi’s quiche lorraine was warmed in the oven and slices quickly disappeared once it was brought to the table.
Up to now, it had been a brunch “détox” but I couldn’t help but smile as M brought out a chilled Chardonnay (so different from our big oaky California whites as to make it hard to believe it is the same grape) for the cheese course. M is a definite oenophile and wines served at his home are never by accident. We toasted and then, I hesitated. While not self-conscious about some things, I am of others in France, even after all of these years. The plateau du fromages had been placed right in front of me as I was seated at the head of the table. All of those perfectly formed morsels just waiting and there certainly is an etiquette of how much to take and at what angle when starting the rounds. I gestured as casually as I could to J on my left who took up the knives and even eventually asked Remi to cut a piece of chèvre for me, as children do. Not even fear of foolishness will keep me from a good cheese.
Now, usually, this is where I start to say, “Non, merci” during a meal. My friends know that I do not have a sweet tooth and so never take offense. But the other guests had stopped by Maison Villaret, a bakery that was founded in 1775 (!) to buy a mille-feuille, a favorite of nearly all at the table. When it was lifted from its gilt-lettered box, I let out a quiet, “Oh my.” Several of the “thousand layers” of flaky puff pastry are separated by a rich and unctuous custard with a crown of hardened sugar icing and this particular one was topped with two gold-dusted macarons. It was wonderful.
But afterwards, a stroll was most certainly in order. I love the Sunday ritual of the post-meal walk and we will often see entire families, several generations deep, meandering through country lanes. Our friends live in the historic center of Nimes and as always, there were many details to take in. I lifted my old iphone heavenwards from time to time as the conversation continued while we passed the Arena and on to the iconic Maison Carrée, one of the most complete remaining temples of the former Roman Empire. The light was gorgeous and as glowing as our bellies. But eventually, I had to dance on my toes to stay warm. Friendship or no, winter is with us still. With reluctance and gratitude, we gave les bises to M and B, content in the knowledge that we would see them again soon. 

To share and share alike

Remi and I have been known to read each others thoughts.

It just happens and when it does, we will invariably make the same comment, “You aren’t allowed to do that! Get out of my head!” And then we laugh. It is an old joke between us but it never does, actually, get old.

So I knew before he spoke that he wasn’t willing to just go the grocery store as planned for our last run before New Year’s Eve but had something else in mind. “Why don’t we go get some good olive oil to use for cooking the lamb?” he queried. I was already nodding before he finished his question and so we took a different direction at the upcoming roundabout and headed towards the Alpilles.

Nearly 80% of this years olive crop was struck down not only here but throughout Italy and Spain as well. Remi was planning ahead. He knew that the good stuff – which we buy regularly at the Moulin de Jean-Cornille in Maussane – wouldn’t last through the winter and he was more than right. There was hardly any left.
We bought three one liter bottles but still were disappointed. The energy in the boutique had been bizarre with other customers clamoring for the oil. I didn’t want our brief foray in the Alpilles to end on such a sour note. Not that afternoon, not ever.
“Why don’t we go and pick some fresh thyme for the lamb as well?” I suggested.
Despite what one might think, les Alpilles do not unceremoniously sprout les Herbs de Provence – rosemary, thyme and sage – partout. Not entirely. Luckily, we have our spot. A tried and true destination…

…amidst olive groves and running vines, parasol pines and stone chopped hills. But would it be there?
We arrived just in time…
…for the most beautiful sunset of the year. As if it knew that it had to take one grand swoop of a bow before time had run out.
And the thyme? No, it had not run out. 
It was Remi who insisted that I take this photo of his victoriously brandishing our récolte or harvest, one that would, indeed perfume l’agneau marvelously along with such exceptional huile d’olive.
He did so because he knew that I was already thinking of you at this beginning of the end. Because just as Remi and I can read each others thoughts, so, oftentimes, you, that royal You, can also pop up inside my head. With a moment so beautiful that it shimmies up next to the sublime, of course, my only recourse was to share and share alike.

Have a wonderful weekend…

Tulips

It is good to try.

The light was scraping across the terra-cotta tiles on the floor in a way that made me want to capture it, to hold it in my hand. I had just lowered myself down to the ground during my yoga practice and that thought tripped through quickly along with Remi’s previous offer that I use the macro lens that works with his camera that I am borrowing. He knows that I like to look closely.

At the time, I was too intimidated. “Let me just start with the basics!” I was squealing a bit, nervous. It is his equipment after all. But today somehow it felt ok. Either that or the need to be creative won out over whatever fear had been holding the reins.

It is good to try.

By doing so, I remembered that life can be wonderfully small or small as a prison depending on how I choose to take it. Remi and I have both been missing our voyaging days, as can especially happen at this time of year. But I did today in the looking. While I have much to learn, so much that I could return to intimidation, I felt joy in discovering and that is what traveling is all about. For once, I wasn’t lost at all but found, held tight in my contentment.

Wishing that your days ahead are full of the big, the small and everything in between…




To listen:

Sunday shopping at a Provençal flea market

Remi wrapped his arm around my shoulder, we picked up the pace and shuddered in unison. That Mistral wind! Always arriving precisely when it is most unwelcome. So it was on a Sunday morning in December. But the sun was gorgeous as it always is on such windswept days and for once, I had prepared, wrapping myself in layers of cashmere with gloves and a bonnet in my pocket plus fly-sized glasses to keep my eyes from tearing. I had to keep my focus. For yet again, we were on the hunt.
Of course, we didn’t actually need a thing from the brocante or flea-market at St. Etienne du Grès. But it has always been about the Art of Looking for us. The prick of possibility. From those very first weeks together in Vanves on the outskirts of Paris, we would walk the puces every weekend, sometimes on both Saturday and Sunday. It was our antiques education, not to mention free entertainment. We didn’t yet have a spare dime between us, so despite our empty apartment (I had only brought an Icart print and many pairs of heels with me from NYC), we simply asked questions of the dealers and compared likes and dislikes over a scrambled brunch upon returning home.
The Mistral whipped Remi and I off into our own individual orbits. Which was just fine as we were both too busy storing up little bits of lost history and found inspiration to be good company. Pushed forward by the wind, I rolled through aisle after aisle, past the sellers lunching on saucisson and warming wine, while mentally sifting the junk from the jewels at each stand. And somehow, just that walking while looking outwards with a soft gaze, always tends to do the same for me mentally. Stuck staring, I wondered with my head tilted just so and responded to each dealer’s enquiring eyes with a nod that was curt but kind. “No, sorry but no.” As always, I was searching without really knowing what I  was looking for and perhaps that is another reason why such flea market strolls are so comforting. Anonymous, right in the thick of the crowds, we all are.
I finished first as I often do, impatient red-head that I am. But then again, it just might be that I like that moment of turning back to search for Remi’s face, that familiar face, to catch him unaware with weighty eyes. Slowly, I reeled myself in towards him until that arm was replaced wordlessly, shoulder-round. We didn’t end up buying anything as we knew we probably wouldn’t and turned to leave as the dealers started to close up shop – repacking their wares carefully and with a hint of accustomed disappointment – all of us waiting for a “Yes, thank you, I’ll take it,” possibly at the next brocante.

A boutis or typically Provençal antique quilt. They are getting harder to find…

Rusty ponies, anyone?

Vintage santons and saints for a Provençal crèche…

What do we think? An olive or grape press?
And for my friend La Contessa of Hen House…
Did you see anything that tempted you?
Sending my very Best from a tiny village in the South of France,
Heather

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