One of the best parts of this trip has been the interesting people we cross paths with. In every town there has been someone who’s native eager to share his world with us. In Marseille, this is Stephan; our landlord and insider for local color. He knocked jauntily on our door yesterday morning to ask, in halting English, “We go now? You want go to zee the market wit me?” “Bien sur!” Stephan is classic French… at least to me… a long, lanky twenty-something with unkempt black curls dripping off of his head and reaching for his collar and piercing blue eyes. He’s spent lots of time circling “correcte” restaurants, the best bread shops and the theaters that are “particulaire” to Marseille on our map. He wants to be sure we taste the best that Provence has to offer… “Dis is de ween (wine) shop wit de good selection of de ween in Marseille. I sink it ees de best. Non! I am soor, eet is de best. You go der for de ween.”
He walks fast, to Ezra’s dismay. The short-legged member of our crew had to hoof-it to keep up with our long-legged friend. He was happy when Stephan stopped to kiss a turban clad woman on both cheeks and chatter for a few minutes in French: “What is this?! Vous avez des petits canards!” “You have a whole row of ducklings!” she pronounced. Stephan laughed. I laughed. She looked startled, evidently not expecting me to speak French. Before Ez could catch his breath his little duck feet were slapping the pavement again, trotting through narrow streets flanked by graffiti style paintings on the walls of every shop.

We heard the market before we saw it. Over the cacophony of french voices buying and selling their wares was a distinctly French accordion drifting through the allees. We rounded the corner and all of a sudden we felt as if we were walking through the movie Chocolat. After so many months in the bustling souqs of North Africa the Provencal markets of Marseille are heaven: Piles of leeks and potatoes sold by ruddy cheeked local rustics who dispense advice to the unsuspecting Canadian Mama: “Non! zees potatoes ees not for zee puree… you want make soup? Zen okay. Not for zee puree avec a machine… seulment a main, by hand, for zee soup, you understand?!” “Of course! I’d never dream of pureeing THESE potatoes in a machine, it would be a sacrilege!” Add to the potatoes and leeks a liter of fresh milk, “You must drink zees milk by four days, no more!” adds Stephan… a round of fresh cheese with garlic and herbs, a chunk of hard cheese with a white rind that is “particulaire” to Provence and a little sack of honey candies as a gift from Stephan for the children and we were really beginning to feel the local color. The walk back was slower… thanks to heavy bags of fresh goodies. “You see dis place, wit elephant rose” “The pink elephant, yes…” “Eet eez an ice cream shop… dis ees de best ice cream in de whole Marseille. Eet eez de delicieux… and zee girl who works ‘eere… she is delicious also… dis job is good for her!” Tony and I looked at each other and tried very hard not to fall off the sidewalk laughing. How very French.

Having spent three months in the former French colony of Tunisia and now finding themselves in french Europe, the children have decided to try to learn the language. They’d been dabbling before, but it’s getting serious now. Hannah is reviewing flash cards made from magazine and grocery store flyer clippings nightly. Gabe is forever asking how to read this or that. Elisha just asks randomly how to say… whatever he wants to say. Ez thinks he already speaks french because he knows “bonjour, bienvenue, au revoir, merci and gaz (gas… this is written above our door to indicate the utilities… “but they spell it wrong Mom.”)

This morning provided the best lesson yet. There is no “cultural experience” for sale in museums or text books that is quite as instructional for a kid as being turned loose on a playground with other kids who don’t speak English. Two such French girls presented themselves as teachers this morning on the glossy red monkey bars at the top of our hill. “Mom! How do you say ‘would you like to play with me’ in French?” asked Hannah. “Veut-tu jouer avec moi” “What? Say it slower…” “Vuuh too joo-ay ahvek mwah.” Over and over I repeated it. They kept getting it wrong. I laughed. Hannah rolled her twelve year old eyes. “MOM. Can you just ask them for us?” “Nope. Suffering is good for you. Figure it out.” More eyes rolled, but off they went. They tried twice, receiving only quizzical looks from the girls. What were these children speaking? Certainly not FRENCH. They came back for yet another class in pronunciation. Third time was a charm, they made themselves known and the girls, with big smiles, broke into the universal child language of hand signs and giggling. The game was on.

As for me, I spent the morning wrapped in my red checked “palestinian” (as my Tunisian friend indentified it) head wrap. It was hard to stay warm as the wind whipped across the play ground at the top of the hill. I huddled, sipping hot tea with lemon from my water bottle and reading my book: A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle, what else?