Dispatch from Everywhere - What a Trip!

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Those of you who have been reading this blog since the beginning know that I tend to trip and fall at inopportune times. My first post was about me falling down the stairs at the Beverly Hills Hotel in front of the singer 50 Cent. My last post spoke about me tripping in front of a crowd on the chichi streets of St. Tropez. In others, I've referenced occasions when I unceremoniously tripped, flipped, or dipped in public. If you detect a trend, you are a smart cookie. After all, I do have a scar on my forehead from running into a "Danger" sign. But more on that later.

So in celebration of my gaffes, and for a laugh at my expense, I share with you some chestnuts of me acting inelegantly in some of the world's most elegant places.

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Picture it. Paris on a sunny, summer Sunday. I am walking up the Champs d'Elysee. Everybody is out enjoying the beautiful weekend weather: the cafes lining the sidewalks are packed. I'm sporting what I think is a jaunty look based on some impulse purchases I made at the Hugo Boss shop behind the Louvre. All I need to complete the look is a fashionable dog. 

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As I pass a particularly crowded cafe, I don't notice that a cobblestone is missing in the walk ahead of me. My foot lands perfectly in the void and I lurch forward, yelp, and come perilously close to taking out a table, two ladies, and their tarte tatin. There are some gasps from the crowd. I'm flummoxed, my traveling companion is mortified, and my dignity is nowhere to be seen. I point dramatically to the missing cobblestone and mumble in French-ese about the travesty of the sidewalk's state of repair. I say things like "Mon Dieu!" and "unaccep-TAH-ble!", which do nothing to repair my image and only prolong the train wreck. People start to avert their gaze. Oh dear.

Then there was that time in Portugal. 

I was attending a conference in Lisbon and tacked on some R&R after it. I was staying at the Lisbon Four Seasons and booked a weekend at the seaside resort town of Estoril, just outside of town. The hotel arranged a car for me - an elegant Mercedes sedan with a driver that looked like Roger Moore. I felt very fancy. Here's how it went down, literally.

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As the car approaches my hotel in Estoril, I note that there is a restaurant in front with a large outdoor seating area. I am arriving at midday and the restaurant is packed. As we pull up, people look as Roger exits the car, and comes around to open my door. 

As the door opens, I put on my shades, straighten my back, try to look indifferent, and put out my foot to exit. I am making quite an entrance. So far so good. Except that unbeknownst to me, my other foot is tangled in the strap of my computer bag. As I step out, the strap catches my ankle, and I pitch out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Yep, a full-on drop and roll. Again, gasps from the crowd (Europeans can be so dramatic). Roger quickly bends over to pick me up. My sunglasses are askew on my face, my clothes are dirty, and once again my dignity is MIA. Roger tries to dust me off. I act like it didn't happen and walk up to the hotel like I am on a catwalk. But out of the corner of my eye, I see two ladies sitting at a nearby table - they are laughing so hard, they are in tears. 

Oh, and then there was the time at that film premiere in Toronto. Well that wasn't so much a fall down as a fall up but it's a good one. 

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For many years, I attended the Toronto International Film Festival each September. Over ten days I would go to premieres each night at the beautiful Roy Thomson Hall. As a pass holder, I would file in behind the press on the red carpet. I had great views of all the celebrities as they worked the carpet and talked to the press. 

So this one year, after successive evenings of premieres, I get to know one of the ushers. She kindly hooks me up and gets me into the VIP seating for the premiere of Cate Blanchett's film, Veronica Guerin. The film is based on a true story about an Irish journalist who took on drug lords and was assassinated. 

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I am feeling very A-list where I am sitting but soon I forget that and become engrossed in the film. The acoustics at Roy Thomson Hall are fantastic and the film is being projected on a huge screen. 

During one suspenseful scene, a bad guy appears out of nowhere. The audience gasps and starts a bit, but my reaction is, how do I put it, a little more extreme. You see, I full-out scream, throw my arms up into the air, and jump up out of my seat like I am doing the wave. 

There I am smack in the middle of the orchestra of this magnificent venue, the only one standing (just in case any of the thousands around me are not certain who was responsible for the incident). I sit back down as people titter around me. I am too embarrassed to look over at Cate Blanchett but I doubt she is taking acting notes about my performance.

Then there was the time in Brussels, Belgium. Let me set the scene. 

I am attending a black-tie dinner at the Palace of Justice, a striking 19th century building set high in the city. For the gala, the steps leading up to the building are lined with fires set in urns. It is a windy night. The whole thing is very dramatic. 

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I feel fabulous. But as I bounce up the steps in my tux, I trip and fall to my hands and knees. I quickly pick myself up and keep going, brushing off and neatening my face and hair as I go, telling myself it is dark and probably no one noticed. 

When I get inside, I look down and see that my hands are dirty. I guess there was soot on the steps from the fires. I take a couple of napkins, wipe my hands and carry on. I grab a glass of champagne and enter the reception. I don't know anyone but I'm feeling good in my tux and the venue is gorgeous. I'm feeling like a double-nought spy - an international man of mystery. Then, after some time milling around and smiling at people, I catch my reflection in a mirror. I have streaks of soot across my face from when I tried to straighten up after falling. Good grief. I'm no man of mystery. I look like a chimney sweep.

Oh, and the scar on my head from running into a danger sign? Well, let's keep that one for another day. I think I've said quite enough.

Dispatch from Saint-Tropez, France - Do You Know The Way To Saint-Tropez?

What to say about Saint-Tropez? I've read that the jet set has moved on to other places, tarnishing the town's "it" status. But when I look around, there is no shortage of money, money, money: gargantuan yachts with uniformed staff catering to people sitting high on decks as if on a stage putting on a show; expensive cars, detailed like they are in a museum; exclusive boutiques with door men like at a nightclub; and flamboyant people flaunting their fabulosity, seemingly trying to out-do one another in the brightness of their expensive clothes. The consumption is conspicuous, indeed. And the people watching is highly entertaining, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it.

If you don't have a mega-yacht or a helicopter (or both), or even a simple rental car, Saint-Tropez isn't that easy to get to. I took a train from Marseilles to St. Raphael. From there I boarded a bus to Saint-Tropez. The coach bus was comfortable enough as it careened along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. But when it arrived at the terminal in Saint-Tropez and spit me and my luggage out onto a confusing maze of streets, I definitely felt like the help and not a jet setter.

I trundled around town looking for my hotel (roller board suitcases should have a shock-absorber option for cobblestones). My hotel is centrally located in the Vieux Port along the Promenade so I thought it would be easy to find. But even though Saint-Tropez is a small town, the streets are windy and confusing. Just when you think you've got it figured out, you get lost once again. Even so, because it is so small, eventually you end up where you want to be. 

As I emerged onto the main square of the Promenade, not looking my freshest, a military band was playing. I don't know why but let's say it was to welcome me. 

My response was an inopportune trip in front of the crowd watching the band. Blessedly, I recovered before it was a full-on drop-and-roll situation but it was a most inelegant introduction. Why do I always do that? In Portugal, I emerged from a car in front of a bustling cafe and poured onto the street because the strap from my bag was wrapped around my leg. In Paris, I was peacocking along the Champs d-Elysee one bright summer afternoon and tripped over a missing cobblestone. And there is always the "yelp" that accompanies the stumble, just in case anyone isn't paying attention. But I'll save all of that for another post.


My hotel is a quaint boutique property that is like the town of Saint-Tropez - a maze of winding hallways and rooms. I've got a tiny but quiet room at the back. I look out onto red-tiled rooftops, palm trees, and cafes. Perfect.


After decompressing, I toodled around town. Saint-Tropez is beautiful. It can fade into the background behind the flash and gaudiness of the people occupying it. But when you focus on the set and not the cast, you see an exquisite town set on a hillside sloping down to the old port and the azur water of the Mediterranean Sea. The buildings are painted in sun-washed pastel colors and roofed in red tiles. And Saint-Tropez, like so many Riviera towns, is a great place to relax - there are not the must-see museums and sights of large cities. Saint-Tropez is all about the charming town and the beautiful beaches that surround it, to be enjoyed at a relaxed pace.

Against this setting, the behemoth yachts in the port, the flashy cars, and the gaudy people look like interlopers.


After exploring the town and noshing on a great dinner, I am now in my hotel room enjoying a glass of Provencal rose. Earlier, a light late-day rain was falling and when the sun poked out for a minute, a full-arc rainbow appeared. Then it morphed into two rainbows (no, really...and it was only one glass of wine). Now, it is late evening and I am perched on the window ledge of my room (not to worry - there are layers of awnings and palm trees below me to cushion a fall). I can smell the foods of the Med from the bistros below - garlic and onions and grilled seafood and meats. The stars are out and the breeze is brisk. I feel like I am in Van Gogh's "Starry Nights". It is all good. 

It is good to know the way to Saint-Tropez (even if your only yacht floats in your bath tub back home).

Dispatch from Miami, Florida - Glidin' in the Glades

I have spent a lot of time experiencing South Florida over the years and I've had some great adventures along the way. But I've never had that ubiquitous South Florida tourist experience - an air boat ride in the Everglades. Today, as my great aunt used to say, "God willing and weather permitting" that will change.

I'm headed out Tamiami Trail to the site of one of the many companies that offer air boat rides. 

Miami is a sprawling city but as you drive west, urban and suburban development abruptly end and you find yourself in the Everglades. No wonder there are seemingly daily news reports about alligators in swimming pools, school yards, and the kitchen's of people's homes. South Florida is built right up to - and in some cases over - the Everglades. We and the alligators and all the other Everglades critters share the same 'hood.

With all the alligator encounters I've had, I should be used to these creatures. But as we know from past posts, I am not. They scare me. They look at me like they know I'm afraid of them. 

When I see homes set against a canal or a pond in South Florida, I shudder to think of living there. Every time I'd go to the yard to call out for Fluffy the cat (or Junior the kid, for that matter) and not get an immediate response, I'd think the worst.

After you hit the Everglades along Tamiami Trail, buildings are few and far between. Just about all that dots the highway are the tourist places offering an Everglades experience. 

The air boat place I'm headed to is set on the side of the busy road smack in the middle of the Everglades. The place is nice enough, with all the accoutrements of a good tourist attraction - a somewhat cheesy gift shop and a greasy spoon restaurant with fried everything listed on a Coke board. I love it. But in this case, the offerings include gator tots. As if the air boating over their heads doesn't tick off the alligators enough, I'm sure the smell of their brethren being deep fried will.

In the parking lot and everywhere else you wander, there are signs telling you to not bother wild alligators. The signs have an animated picture of an open alligator mouth and a human arm with the fingers separated from the hand. Point taken.

I always get a kick out of signs like these. To me they are some desperate attempt to cheat Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest. They're like the directions painted on London streets at sidewalks telling people to look to the left or right before crossing. How many tourists not used to traffic driving on the left side of London roads got smacked by a London cab or double-decker bus before the authorities said, "We'd better paint warnings on the streets"?. In this case, how many gator-taunting tourists were disunited from a limb before the powers-at-be said, "We'd better put up a sign"?.

When I check in, I am corralled along docks to an area with a variety of tour-ready air boats. When boarding the boat, I am given a pair of bright orange foam ear plugs and told that I must wear them because the boats are noisy. Immediately, I imagine going out on the tour and seeing another boat flipped over with big bite marks on its hull and no sign of anyone - just a bunch of these orange ear plugs floating in the water.

The tour itself is a great experience. Once underway, I finally understand the reason for the air boats. They can glide on top of the shallowest of water because they have no props beneath. It's all about the air power. In places, we are in open water but in others, we seem to skim over the grassy land of the Everglades. 




The area is vast and no buildings are in sight. You have a frontier feeling as you zip around this beautiful place.

By the by, I think KIm Jong-un is on the boat in front of me. Come to think of it, maybe it's not him because I can't see Dennis Rodman. Judge for yourself. Anyhoo, at least his head is blocking the wind.

Of course, the guide slows the boat at different spots to see alligators. At one spot, a gator comes swimming by as if on cue, like some Orlando theme park attraction. But in the relative safety of the boat, the gator is not what strikes me. It's what the guide says. 

We are next to this small outcrop of trees - a crude little island. The guide says that this is called a "hammock" and that Native Americans inhabited small islands like this back in the day.

They escaped forced relocation by government and came here to be left alone. Alone indeed. I can't imagine how desolate it must have been, especially when it was dark, the area was teeming with wildlife, and mosquitoes were the size of birds. Wow.

After the ride, we are invited to roam the park and see a live alligator interaction show. The guy who does the show is engaging but as he handles the alligators, big and small, and tells us how safe it is to handle them if it's done properly, I can't help but notice this bandage on his face and wonder what happened. 

After the show, I continue to explore through a park area with varieties of gators and crocs in pens. They even have the human-eating Nile crocodile that recently has been found in the wilds of South Florida. Lovely. Oh yea, this one's got my number.

As I'm bravely staring this beast down through chain link fencing, I hear an air boat approaching and look up. The air boat is coming in from a tour, just like mine did, and is passing by the grassy area where I am standing. 

With a thump in my stomach, I realize that the area where I am standing is open to the water where the tours go and where the wild alligators are. Without putting too fine a point on it, I am looking at these exotic human-eating specimens penned behind fencing but I am standing in the open Everglades with all the human-eating creatures that call it home. Sure enough, just as my pea brain takes all this in, I see a big alligator taking a stroll on the grass next to the incoming air boat - and he is not behind any fence! Dagnabbit!



As if that isn't enough, to guild the sheer-fear lily, I reel around to avert the threat. As I am turning, I look up and catch sight of a palm tree full of big birds. I squint to see them against the backdrop of the sunlight and realize that it is a flock of vultures, perched right above me. What are they waiting for? Everglades tourist road kill to snack on? I'm so out of here. I'd rather face the crazy wild people of Miami than the crazy wildlife of the Everglades.

Dispatch from Hong Kong - Hong vs. Kong

Hong Kong is a city of contradictions: futuristic skyscrapers next to shabby buildings; high speed yachts sharing Victoria Harbor with traditional Chinese fishing boats; five-star gourmet cuisine alongside street food vendors; haute couture fashion houses on the same block as dollar stores selling cheap wares.


Next to my hotel, a skyscraper is under construction. The modern building reaches for the sky but the scaffolding cladding it is crudely made entirely from bamboo lashed together and covered in green plastic netting.

And yet all these contradictions create an eclectic mix that makes Hong Kong entirely unique.


The pace of Hong Kong is fast. There are more than 7 million people here and they tend to get around with haste, just like the big bucks being spent on luxury goods and the billions of dollars flying around the financial market.

And then there is that skyline, so beautifully highlighted by the city's harbor. On the hotel- and tourist-heavy Kowloon side, the harbor-front boardwalks do double duty as an open air stadium to view the nightly light spectacle of the Hong Kong skyline. Even that moves fast.

Yesterday, as I was wandering the streets of Hong Kong, I was struck by how much of the British influence remains - from the street and building names to the high tea ritual at all the swanky hotels.

With it's own money, government, and culture, as well as so much that remains British, the "Special Administration Region" of Hong Kong is an anomaly within China. But that is probably smart. The SAR allows China to have capitalism and all things western without compromising the communist state - the best of both worlds.

To experience Hong Kong's greatest contradiction, you need only take a short walk west of that world class skyline. Within a few blocks, you leave the Hong Kong you know and enter a traditional Chinese community. I explored it this morning.

The streets are lined with small independent shops selling all sorts of adventurous stuff - exotic foods, herbs, live animals. I saw one shop that sold live snakes to cure all sorts of ails. Apparently people pay to have the gall bladder taken out of a live snake and eat it raw in the belief that doing so ensures long life (not, it goes without saying, for the snake). While I was standing there, a guy came out of the shop holding an empty snake basket and scanned the sidewalk like he lost something. I left pretty quickly.

On this hot summer day, the sidewalks in front of these shops are lined with all sorts of things drying on plastic or in baskets in the hot sun - veggies, mushrooms, fish, sea slugs, lizards, and even seahorses. I guess the drying intensifies the flavor, but with all the traffic, it must also add a note of exhaust.


In an attempt to escape the heat, I ducked into the central market. Wow, that place was intense. People and food were flying around everywhere - chickens being slaughtered, boiled, and plucked; pigs being portioned; seafood being cleaned on the floor; vegetables being bundled and tossed onto tables. I saw one guy in chef's whites walking out with a slaughtered pig over his shoulder. The pig was not packaged in any way - just bound at the hind legs with twine. It bobbed up and down like it was dancing as the chef walked away. I guess pork is on the menu tonight.

After a butcher fired up his hose to clean his stall just as I passed, and showered me with specks of all the nasty protein bits he was cleaning, I decided that the blazing heat and sun outside were not that bad after all. 

I headed up another street that had many shops selling what looked like colorful toys. But these weren't toy stores. It turns out they were funeral stores selling plastic and cardboard replicas of everything and anything you can imagine. Apparently people buy these and burn them at the funeral or bury them with the deceased for use in the afterlife. 

And when I say they sell everything you can imagine, I am not kidding. I saw utensils, books, musical instruments, sporting goods, designer handbags, make up, bundles of money, food, booze, ciggies, flat screen tv's, cars, headphones, laptop computers, cell phones (talk about roaming charges) and dolls that were dressed like servants (I guess it's hard to get good help in the afterlife), all made from plastic or cardboard.

But what I couldn't find in any of the stores, no matter how hard I looked, was what I would want buried with me more than anything else - a return ticket.

Dispatch from Hong Kong - Toots and Tatas

I'm having one of those days where I feel like I'm in another dimension. I'm in Hong Kong and I just returned from a hike on Victoria Peak. It is a smotheringly hot and humid day. I'm in my hotel in Kowloon wringing out my clothes and resting, still shaking my head at my day. 

Let's start at the beginning. Before heading up to Victoria's Peak, I wandered around Hong Kong without any plan. 

I was in a park in the financial district getting my bearings when I noticed that the park was filled with Asian women sitting together in two's or groups chatting and eating. Some had picnics set out on the grass. There were no men. The ladies were talking in a very animated way. They all looked so happy. As I heard them speaking, I recognized the language. They were not speaking Mandarin; they were speaking Tagalog. They must be Filipino. The park must be their meeting point on their day off. 

I sat for awhile watching them interact. Their happiness was infectious. Of course, Filipinas being Filipinas, if I had said hello to any of them, I would have been showered with delicious food. But I resisted the temptation to interrupt their time together and moved on. Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!

Anyhoo, from there I ended up in the botanical garden at the base of Victoria Peak. I saw no one else while I was there. I had the run of the place, so I flitted around. That's when the day started to get weird.

In the garden, there is a forest of bamboo that is taller than I have ever seen. I stood in the middle of it. As the wind blew, the trees swayed and made a vibrating sound. It was entrancing. Depending on who is asking, I may admit that I channeled the "Matrix" movie and did some slow-motion martial arts moves before moving on. 

The garden also has a zoo. I found myself in front of the orangutan environment - a huge caged area with many nooks and crannies. A sign gave information about the resident male and female. It noted that they rarely breed. 

I could see one enormous orangutan high in the cage laying on it's back. But I couldn't find the other. I noticed that the huge one was slowly rocking back and forth. I strained to see what it was doing and realized that I was not looking at one gigantic orangutan but rather two. One was on top of the other. And I was witnessing the event that the sign said is so rare. They were doing the nasty. 






I looked around to see if anyone else was near. No one. I felt like a voyeur but I was fascinated. Before I could make a call about whether to avert my gaze, the one that I think was the male got off (...the other one...), sluggishly moved to the side, and sat down. If he had a cigarette, I think he would have smoked it. The other one, the female I think, just lay there on her back looking around. She appeared to be thinking, "Is that it?". 

I guess we humans really are related to the apes.

I realized that nothing else in the zoo and gardens could top that spectacle so I left and took the tram up to Victoria Peak. I decided to trek around the path that crowns the mountain for a 360 degree view of Hong Kong and the South China Sea, uncertain of how long it would take. 

Like at the gardens, there was hardly anyone else around as I circled the peak. At one point, as I sat looking out over the sea, an elderly man came jogging by. And when I say elderly, I mean ancient. He was decked out in a blue track suit with a matching head band. He looked like a stick figure. As he passed me, I heard this noise - a popping noise in rapid succession. He was farting. And it didn't stop - it was like machine gun fire as he approached and passed. Off he went along the path, the sharp shots fading away along with him. It must be his propulsion system.

As I continued along, clutching my towel to mop the sweat, I saw a big stick ahead on the path. As I got closer, I realized that it was not a stick; it was a big, ominous-looking snake. I froze. But the snake was not moving either. It was a stand off. I just stood there for awhile. At this point, about two-thirds of the way around the peak, I didn't want to turn back, so I steeled myself. I broke into a trot and ran around the snake, unwittingly making the strangest muffled, squeaking noise through my pursed lips. As I passed the snake, I realized that it was dead. Maybe it succumbed to the old guy's farts. Crisis averted. Onward and upward. 

I finished the trek and boarded the tram for the ride down, my mind awash with visions of a farting blue stick figure and a nasty dead snake. My thoughts were broken by a young man who sat in front of me. I couldn't help but notice that he had this enormous mole on his cheek. From the mole grew this intense patch of black hairs, each at least an inch long. It looked like a paint brush. As we descended the peak, I was transfixed by this appendage on his cheek.  

When we arrived at the bottom, I shook off the whole mole thing, got off the tram, navigated my way through Hong Kong, took the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbor, and started walking to my hotel. It was rush hour and the traffic was insane. 

As I crossed a busy intersection, a guy on a motorcycle came out of nowhere and wiped out in the intersection. It seemed to happen in slow motion, his motorbike skidding along on it's side as he slid along behind it. Another very Matrix-y scene. 

When this happened, people all around - on foot, in cars, and on trams - stopped in their tracks to watch. It was like someone hit the pause button on the scene. 

After a moment, the slider picked himself up, righted his motorbike, and continued on. Then everyone else started moving again, as though nothing happened. 

I couldn't get to my hotel fast enough. This day had been beyond weird.

So now I'm in my hotel room shaking off the day and writing this. My room is on an upper floor of the hotel - a "modest" one teasingly close to the lavish Peninsula Hotel. The seat at the desk faces the window. 

I'd like to say that I am looking out at the Hong Kong skyline and wax poetic about it's beauty. But I am not. I am looking at a gi-normous billboard on the building across the street. The advert is for Sisley and it's a pic of a woman cupping her chest. Her boobs are directly at my eye level. They fill the window. I think I'll call the left one "Hong" and the right one "Kong" and call it a night.

Dispatch from Aix-En-Provence, France - Who Cez'?

Yesterday, I arrived in Aix-En-Provence by train from Paris. On the way, I first realized that I was in Provence when the train stopped between Marseilles and Aix. I looked up from my reading to see a grimy little train station but all around it and the tracks were vibrant, red, wild poppies. 

In Aix, I am staying at a fantastic boutique hotel, Hotel Cezanne, near the train station. The name should have tipped me off. Aix is all about it's most famous son, the painter Cezanne. As I explore the city, I realize that you can't swing an empty pastis bottle without hitting something named after the artist, favored by the artist, or savored by the artist - Cezanne's home, Cezanne's studio, Cezanne's street, Cezanne's grave, Cezanne's favorite restaurant, Cezanne's bar. Cez', Cez', Cez'. I even saw a t-shirt that said, "Cezanne is my Homeboy". This is all ironic given that for much of his life, Aix's bourgeoisie ridiculed Cezanne and his art. 

Anyhoo, Aix is a beautiful city and an easy one to navigate on foot. Many of the buildings have tile roofs and ochre-colored walls. The buildings contrast brilliantly against the deep cobalt-blue sky. Parts of the city seem to jump from a Cezanne painting. 

Earlier today, after exploring Aix, I decided to head east and hike the route named after...3 guesses and the first 2 don't count...Cezanne. You can drive it, bike it, or walk it and see the countryside that Cezanne so loved and painted. I decided to walk it like Cezanne did. A guide book that I read said it is a "lovely stroll". What a crock. It is lovely indeed, but it is not a stroll. It is a trek for the adventurous and unflappable.

The sidewalks, however thin in town, disappear and the road is narrow. You have to cross back and forth on the road to pick the side with the widest shoulder while cars, trucks, and motorbikes whiz by. It is not some country road. It is the D17 highway. And there are a lot of hills.

But if you make the trek, your determination is rewarded. The further you go out of town, the more breathtaking the views (in part, because you are out of breath from hiking).

A few times during my trek outbound, I thought I should turn back. But then the traffic started lightening, and I began seeing picturesque fields, trees, hills, and streams. In my beloved late afternoon light, these scenes were so stunning that they seemed unreal. The sheer beauty energized me to forge on. 

At one point, I wandered off the road and up a path. After awhile, it opened onto a hilly field of wild flowers and cypress trees, behind which was a tile-roofed mas (farmhouse) tucked amid a forest of trees, and Mont St. Victoire in the background, with that blue, blue Provencal sky framing everything. I just stood there for awhile stunned by the beauty and the sensory assault. A light breeze was delivering the smell-o-vision of the flowers, grasses, and trees. I could even smell the sunshine. I felt this unbridled sense of freedom. I could not believe I was experiencing this. I'm not too proud to admit that I teared up a little and, inappropriately, felt the urge to bust into "The hills are alive...".


There is a bus that you can take back to Aix if you only want to make the trek one way. But I decided to walk back and, as is often the case, the return trip seemed much shorter. I was rewarded by seeing a picturesque olive grove that I missed on the way out, while I was running the gauntlet. My only close encounter on the inbound was with a "femme rotund" on a scooter who was buzzing along the side of the road and almost clipped me with one of her saddlebags (at least I think it was a saddlebag...).

Now I'm back in my cozy hotel room enjoying a glass of local rose wine while I process my day. Though the day started with me exploring beautiful Aix, the image of that field and the trees in the country with Mont St. Victoire in the background is what is stuck in my mind. At the top of the mountain, I could make out the stone walls of Les Baux. 

I remember being in Provence years ago with my folks. We stayed in a beautiful hotel in the country near Les Baux and explored the countryside by car taking day trips into towns. I remember standing on the stone walls of Les Baux at the top of Mont St. Victoire, with a mistral-like wind blowing, looking down on the very valley and fields that I was standing in today. 

I realize that, while the many towns and cities of Provence are beautiful, my Provence is the countryside. It is truly unique and entirely unforgettable.