I wake up in Marseille and think “please let my bag arrive”. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal but buying clothes and shoes in my size felt impossible. I quickly check my phone for texts and emails but alas there are none. I send an email asking for information and go to breakfast before check out.
Today we had a transfer to Arles booked with a stop off in Aix -en-Provence. I have cancelled it in light of the fact we have to return to the airport to pick up the suitcase. The email comes, yippppeeeee, it is there so we take another 40 euro Uber ride to the airport where we have decided to rent a car and drive to Arles via aix-en-Provence.
With suitcase in hand and rental car in wheel we are off. It’s bigger than what we normally get but WH thinks it will be ok. I forget how disconcerting it is driving on the wrong side of the road, even though I am not driving. I slam on the faux brake pedal on my side all the time. Nearly reach for the rear view mirror to put it in its correct position and try not to make audible noises when I feel we are too close, or too fast or just simply on the wrong side of the road.
We get to Aix en Provence and find a car park building and as WH navigates down the bendy curves and into the small car park my lips remain perfectly sealed, and my eyes closed. I am now quite eagerly seeking a bathroom so we wander around and around. I am not hungry after the hotel breakfast so don’t want to go into a restaurant. We wander and look up alleys and down roads for a WC sign but alas. The situation is now reaching a high degree of seriousness so I follow the signs for a museum, as museums have toilets do they not. We arrive at the museum and as the situation feels increasingly dire we go through security, I feel sure I will beep just because that will take even more time. I ask for two tickets. How how much would you pay to go to the toilet? A couple of bucks and then a wander around the museum in the air con? See a few statues. A couple of paintings. Some old stuff. 8 EURO EACH. That’s 16 euro for two. I could of had a raspberry tart and cold drink for less. I can’t say don’t worry about it because I am too busting and also would then have to go back out through the security thing.
I try to make the most of the museum visit. I even drink a near full bottle of water and go to the loo again to really get my monies worth. But it’s boring and we leave. I said to WH that this guy sums my visit up. I call him Floppy dick and I hope I am not being disrespectful. He is beautifully sculptured and probably very very old and famous but I care not.
Neither of us can be bothered wandering anymore so we head back to the car and navigate our way to Arles, with much more success.
We are staying for three nights in a tiny house in the historic centre and its cute. It down one of the quaint little lanes.
We sit in a square and watch the world go by and I know why I love France. It just feels good here. I should qualify that I like smaller towns like this or villages, rather than the cities. We eat late ordering what is effectively pot luck as we can’t speak enough French. But it’s all good. WH meat is very rare but mine is ravioli so its al good.
There is a photograph festival here and I haven’t yet been into any of the expeditions but we stumble upon a beautiful park and Luna.
It’s then past the old ampitheatre and onto the old colosseum which WH tells me is the 20th one for oldness and stuff. He is very good at reading signs and paying attention and I far prefer him as my guide.
And because I just like to wander and take photos, today of photos.
