If you’ve done any reading about Provence you’ve heard about the Mistral, the cold north wind that blows down through the hills and out over the Mediterranean in the early spring. I’ve discovered that it is one thing to read about it while sipping tea and soaking in a tub full of bubbles on a cozy winter afternoon, and another thing altogether to walk, head bowed into the arctic blast, clutching scarfs and hats and my son’s bitterly cold little pink fingers as we hurry through narrow streets that have become wind tunnels. The presence of the Mistral adds a level of “authenticity” to our time in Provence. It somehow seems wrong that we should come here and bask in the sumptuous foods, breads, cheeses and wines without suffering in some small measure. It would be too good to be true.

It was with pink cheeks beneath our Palestinian scarves that we gratefully descended to the train platform beneath the big cathedral on our square; a world apart from the bustling city above. In the quiet dimness of tube stations I find that life often flashes before my eyes. A parade of people from memories I never had and lives I never lived move between sliding glass doors, magically appearing and then disappearing on paths I’ll never take. And yet, it seems I have taken them in one life or another: young children bouncing at the ends of mothers’ arms (I’ve lived that one twice, once on each end of the arm) teenage girls with glossy black hair and equally glossy red lips, checking their reflections in the flickering windows of a passing train, young lovers, limbs braided together, alone in the crowd, old women, heads wrapped, heavy socks peeking out from beneath thick wool skirts and disappearing into sensible black shoes. Sad eyes reflected, unseeing, in the black glass of a train window with nothing to see on the other side, hopeful faces of young people who’ve neither “been there” nor “done that”, and then there are the solid, stoic men of middle age who make the world go ‘round. The doors of our train slide open and I’m swept back to my own life on the shoulders of my boys, crowding around me like huddling penguins to escape the arctic air.

We took the train all the way to the end of the orange line at “Bouganville” and followed the crowd of people carrying hand woven baskets, rolling carts and trendy reusable shopping sacks from a local grocery store chain toward the big Sunday market of Marseille. Stephan had assured us that we must go as it is quite particulaire to the region. It was worth the trip. The market itself is housed inside several warehouse buildings lined with stalls overflowing with fruits and vegetables of every sort, Tunisian and Moroccan shops, butchers of several varieties, housewares of every cheap plastic and low-end metal variety, even booths of greasy old car parts, looking for all the world like the gory result of automobile autopsies, sorted into haphazard piles. It was many things, but it was not what we expected of a “typical” Provençal Sunday market. Instead of hard cheeses, fresh honey and crusty bread we found Halal meat, “Berber bread” as the kids call the North African breads we came to love in Tunisia, and every manner of brik-a-brak. Tony hit the nail on the head with his initial analysis: “This is like a garage sale that exploded!” There were, however treats to be found, in the form of olives, and these redeemed the day for me. We gleefully dipped nearly a kilo of various marinated varieties out of the vats across from the “Berber bread” makers and congratulated ourselves on paying a third of what we’d paid in Vienna for the same catch. The boys were delightfully horrified by the “choose your own chicken” stand, where one could point at the live chicken he wanted and then watch it’s neck wrung and have it plucked and gutted “while you wait.” I couldn’t watch. Not because I’m squeamish about chickens… I’ve helped behead, pluck and gut my share, but because there was a dead guinea hen in the pen on the floor that had been there a while and the smell of half rotted bird death was indescribable.

It was a long cold walk back to the metro station, past the traditionally dressed muslim men collecting for the construction of a mosque who nodded their approval at our Palestinian wraps, past the barbeque grill full of lamb kebab that made our mouths water, past the long line of African women carrying large bouquets of garishly colored silk flowers as the Mistral did it’s frosty best to divest them of their silken veils. Ezra lost his hat. The red one that I knit him for Christmas of Tunisian yarn. Somewhere between the train and the market it disappeared; he was only consoled by the promise of a new one, knit from yarn he will choose tomorrow at the yarn shop up the street.

We spent yet another long hour in Gare St. Charles trying to sort out the fiasco that is bicycle transport on French trains. We are very disappointed to have to report that it is impossible for us to travel to Barcelona by train with our bikes. After two long conversations with very kind, but very inflexible train agents, the verdict has been delivered and we have no choice but to accept it: our plans for two weeks in Spain and a lovely stay on a sailboat must be abandoned. Instead, we’ll stay another week in Provence and move on toward Paris a little earlier than we’d planned. Of course we’ll love the adventures we find and every day is full of joy and blessing for us… but we’ll also miss the opportunity to practice our Spanish and visit the land of the toreadors. C’est la vie.