Aix Marks the Spot

by Sarah Anderson

  We did one last sharp turn, and finally we were in an open-air parking lot. Jean-Pascal found a spot and Mamie instantly flew out of the car, visibly trembling.

  “Is she ok?” I asked Jean-Pascal, as he held open my door.

  “She do not like car,” he replied.

  Oh. That answered a few questions, like why she didn’t come to pick me up at the airport. The fact she was willing to endure an hour and some drive to take me to this town made me feel a little warmer towards her, even if I didn’t want to come in the first place.

  Mamie straightened up and pointed to a spot between the two cliffs as Jean-Pascal ran off to pay the meter.

  “You see?” she said, her hand steadfast, “Tu vois? Là!”

  Neither she nor Jean-Pascal were imagining things after all: because right there, strung between the two peeks like a giant necklace, was a little golden star hung by a chain. I gaped.

  “What… quoi?” I asked, suddenly able to be dumbfounded in both languages.

  “Prieuré,” was her only answer, pointing slightly lower than the star. “Marche?”

  “Marche? March?”

  She made a marching motion. Apparently, we were going to march up there, or something. It wasn’t the nicest day for a hike, but then again, at least I was finally doing something with Mamie.

  The three of us took the old stairs up, breathing heavily at the combination of heat and steepness. We crossed a bridge across a dry riverbed, and followed the stone path, me feeling oddly reminded of something out of Lord of the Rings. Only this, somehow, inexplicably, was real: stone steps up a mountain to a golden star, shrines to the virgin Mary along the way, and my Mamie leading the hike.

  At the very top, we found a small church, claiming to be ‘Notre-Dame-de-Bouvoir’, though there was nothing Notre-Damey about it. It was more like a tiny chapel, dwarfed by the Cyprus trees outside it.

  “Twelve century,” said Jean-Pascal, practically making me jump out of my skin. No one had dared talk during the climb, lest we waste our breath.

  “The star too?” I asked. He nodded.

  “A knight,” he explained, “came back. Built star.”

  How a 12th century star could still remain suspended between two cliffs I couldn’t possibly tell you. Mamie was already sitting on the edge of the squat stone wall, lighting a cigarette as she stared back at the view. Jean-Pascal looked her way, frowning.

  “Do you want to see ze inside?” he asked. I nodded: I didn’t really, but it was nice being asked.

  The two of us stepped inside, and somehow, it was even smaller than I had first assumed. A few other tourists were already inside, admiring the stone work, each staring at a different corner of the tiny chapel. The only impressive thing about it was its age.

  I turned to Jean-Pascal, glad to finally have some time alone with him. I had so many questions about Mamie: about how much he knew about our family, or why Mamie didn’t want me around, or why she wanted to even take me out today. Why here, specifically. And what he meant to her, and…

  “Jean- “

  I clasped my hands over my mouth as the word slipped out. It echoed across the walls, reverberating louder and louder. All eyes turned to me as I shrank back into the shadows. I stepped outside before my embarrassment could grow any more.

  At least out here, the view was incredible: the little town below looked like something out of a storybook, tiny houses with tiled roofs lining a river on an impossibly steep hill. From here, I could see terraced hills stretching out into a valley, green pines dotting the landscape, few roads getting in the way.

  “On descend?” asked Mamie, stamping out her cigarette.

  I nodded, and instantly she began walking down the hill. Oh. I thought she had asked if I liked the view or something, not if I wanted to walk back down already.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to spend more time up on this mountain, but we had walked so hard to get here, only to turn around and go right back to where we had come from. It felt like a waste. Jean-Pascal said nothing as we followed Mamie back down, and then continued on into the town.

  When people speak of sleepy French villages, they probably imagine these towns sans-tourists. We were not the only ones taking in the breathtaking views of Moustiers: groups speaking every possible language passed by us as we walked. The narrow streets were lined with pottery shops and souvenir stores, old doors and old stone steps framing our way.

  When we reached the main street, the sound of tourists speaking was masked by the sound of a crashing waterfall, and for a minute I forgot I was in France and imagined I was in a little alpine village in Austria, living the sound of music. Water ran right through the town, channeled by large stone walls, only to crash into a glacier-blue pool below. A restaurant hung over the falls, under the watchful gaze of a centuries old clocktower, which struck half past twelve for anyone who cared to hear it.

  A small girl skipped by with an ice cream cone, topped with purple scoops. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  “Lavender ice cream?” I asked Jean-Pascal.

  “Français!” Mamie interjected.

  “Glace… Lavender?” I asked again. He nodded.

  “Lavande et miel… and honey.”

  Oh my gosh. Now that sounded heavenly.

  “May I?” I asked, indicating the closest ice cream stall. “Je… pouvoir?”

  “Tu peux,” said Jean-Pascal, smiling.

  “Après dejeuner,” added Mamie, shooting him a glare. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought they were an old married couple. My Spidey senses were tingling.

  “After lunch?” I asked, and Jean-Pascal nodded.

  Lunch was at a cute restaurant that overlooked the waterfall, the three of us seated cozily together at the window so we could watch the river down below. It would have been idyllic if it wasn’t for the menu in front of me, that was very, very French.

  I sat in my chair, frozen stiff at the prospect of ordering. I knew the words, or at least, I think I did, but the problem was they never came out in the right order. And what if the waitress asked me follow up questions? Not to mention the fact I could only get the gist of about half the meals on the menu, and Mamie and Jean-Pascal were chattering away so quickly I couldn’t get a question in edgewise.

  “Vous avez choisi?” asked the waitress, in a prim white and black uniform, notepad in hand.

  Mamie rattled off something in an instant. Jean-Pascal seemed to agree with her about something and handed the waitress his menu. I could only look at her, dumbfounded, as she turned her attention to me.

  On the spot, I did the only thing I could: I poked my finger at random in the menu, and smiled, and said, “S’il vous plait?”

  “Andouilette? Bien sur.”

  Mamie turned to me and unleashed the most exquisite smile I had ever seen. Talk about beaming, this lady was a beacon.

  “Je suis fière de toi, ma puce,” She said, as Jean-Pascal gave me a look of pure and utter shock.

  Yay me, finally impressing my grandmother! Jamie for the win!

  The woman nodded, taking down our orders and heading back to the kitchen. And so passed the longest, most awkward half hour of my life: The food took forever to come out, and I had to sit, listening to the two French speakers go, unable to follow or to join their conversation. So when the food finally arrived, I was hungrier than ever before.

  The plate before me was filled with a massive sausage, white and covered with a creamy gravy. Golden French fries, thick and crispy, sat to the edge of the plate, with a tiny salad consisting of three green leaves and a cherry tomato. Relief washed over me: I had won the food jackpot.

  Relief turned to dread as I sliced through the sausage, only to see the rolled layers inside. The smell hit me in a wave, so strongly I had to hold back a gag. Old socks left out in the sun too long were replacing the meal I had ordered. Old socks and a men’s locker room.

  “Bon appétit,” said Mamie, before tackling her steak. Jean-Pascal gave me a p
itying look. Now I knew why Mamie was so proud of my order, and it had nothing to do with my pointing and thanking system.

  It tasted exactly how it smelled. I forced the first bite down, desperate to win her approval. It was like chewing on the sole of a shoe. A little glass cup sat before us, stuffed with single serving ketchup and mayo. I grabbed for the ketchup and spread it over my plate, desperate for anything to mask the taste. The reward came in the form of a French fry, dipped in the gravy – a pepper sauce that actually wasn’t all that bad.

  Mamie turned up her nose at the now empty ketchup pack on my napkin. Somehow, once again, I had failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

  It was drizzling as we left the restaurant. I had heard that meals in France could last hours, but it seemed both Mamie and Jean-Pascal were in as much of a rush to get out of the awkward meal as I was. My stomach churned, unable to process whatever I had just eaten. I think it might have been pork guts or something. And my gut didn’t like this gut on gut action.

  But I still wanted my ice cream.

  “Dessert?” I asked, putting on a French accent and hoping it translated. “Glace?”

  Jean-Pascal nodded. “Pourquoi pas?”

  Just then, a rumble of thunder came down the mountain. Mamie looked up the cliffs, then back as us, frowning her familiar frown.

  “Alors là, non,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “Il y’a un orage qui se prépare.”

  “Orage?” That one, I did know. Thank you, Valentin. “A storm is coming?”

  The thunder rumbled again, louder this time. The rain started coming down harder.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” I begged, “I really want to taste it. Je veut… um… glace lavender?”

  “Ça va pas tarder à tomber, et je n’ai pas de parapluie. Allez.”

  Mamie started walking back towards the car, ignoring me. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, my eyes riveted on the ice cream stand. Jean-Pascal gave me another one of his patented pitying looks, and shrugged, his whole body joining into the motion. A definite ‘sorry, there’s nothing I can do.’

  “You said I could…” I found myself whining, my inner toddler peeking out. “I came on this trip. I walked the stairs. I ate the stinking sausage. I only ask for one thing, and you just…”

  “Iz not me to decide,” he said.

  “But you could help!” I begged. “She won’t listen to me unless I speak perfect French, and I just can’t! I’m trying, but I can’t!”

  “Rho, mais! Depéchez vous, bon sang!” She yelled back down to us. “J’ai pas envie de passer une heure mouillée dans la voiture!”

  “Next time,” said Jean-Pascal. And even as nicely as he said it, I knew I never wanted another next time.

  As Mamie stormed up the hill back to the car, and the raindrops came down harder, I wondered why I ever thought eating a shoe flavored sausage would get her to like me. She wouldn’t like me unless I was French.

  “I thought we couldn’t take your scooter?”

  I met Valentin at Mamie’s Gate, trying to keep a straight face as I writhed internally. Our ‘family time’ yesterday had only made matters worse, and the quiet house felt haunted by Mamie’s silent presence. I was glad to get out, to get back to Dad’s hunt.

  Valentin was perched on his scooter, popping off his helmet and running his fingers through sweaty hair as we talked. It felt like weeks since I had last seen him, and just looking at his face made my day shine brighter.

  “Not all the way there,” he said, and I felt my heart flutter as English poured from his lips. “But we have to get to the train station. Now will you please get on the bike?”

  I slipped on the helmet, tightened the straps of my backpack, and climbed onto the scooter behind him. Slowly, very slowly, I wrapped my arms around his chest. I felt it stiffen.

  “Um, why are you holding me?”

  “Isn’t this how I’m supposed to…”

  “There are handles behind you?” he said, flabbergasted, “I mean, sure, hug me all you want, but I’ll never be able to drive like that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I squeaked, my face hot. I let go of his waist and reached back, finding little hooks behind my seat which I could grab onto. “I mean…”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. I felt my stomach turn into knots. Not a great start to this adventure.

  I gripped on tight as he drove us down the road. He was confident at the wheel, though I was glad no one else was on the road at this hour. If they were, they must have been giving us a wide berth just out of the kindness of their hearts.

  I felt like we passed quite a few train stations before actually reaching the one Valentin wanted us to go to. He parked his scooter and I hopped off, suddenly aware of the hot air on my skin. The storm had passed: today was going to be another scorcher.

  “Ok,” he said, with that deep French accent of his, “this train will take us to Avignon. From there, getting to les Baux will be easy, so long as we do not miss our bus.” He opened up the scooter’s seat and grabbed his own bag, sliding it over his shoulder.

  “Avignon, I’ve heard of that place, haven’t I?”

  “Do you like castles?” He led us to the train station, but there was none. Instead, a little cement hut about the size and shape of an outhouse sat on the platform, the station sign larger than the wall itself. A tiny plaque showing a man in a reclining chair with a suitcase and a clock told us this was the waiting room, while it was neither a room, nor had a chair, or a clock for that matter.

  “I guess?”

  “Avignon is where the pope lived,” he explained, “When they split from Rome in the 14th century.”

  “So it’s basically part time Vatican?”

  “It was, ouais,” he nodded, grinning. Valentin was so at ease when it came to telling me stories about France’s past. I could see him one day, standing in a museum, telling the world about another great thing France had done which we all took for granted.

  “All that is left now are massive walls and the Palais des Papes. The Pope’s palace. And the city, of course.”

  “That’s so cool!” I said. I knew I wasn’t here to sightsee, but I needed something to keep my thoughts off Mamie.

  The train slid to a halt beside us and we took our seats, and off we were again, reclining in style.

  “Last time I took the train from Philly to Baltimore, it cost me forty bucks each way,” I said, as I saw an old tower whiz past us.

  Valentin shrugged. “Pas terrible.”

  “Not terrible?” I translated, “It sucks, man.”

  “It’s how we say that,” he said, “Pas terrible means It sucks.”

  “So Pas Mal, not bad, would mean ‘that’s awful?’”

  “No, Pas Mal means awesome.”

  “I don’t understand your language.”

  “Neither do I,” he replied, with a sly smile playing on the corner of his lips. “Alors, how was your day with your grandmother?”

  “Honestly?” I said, “Pas terrible.”

  “Oh?”

  Just one sound, and it felt as if I had his full attention. The entire question rolled into a single syllable. I wondered if it was a French thing, not to ask the uncomfortable questions. I had heard the French were closed off, but less than a week ago Valentin was a stranger, and now we were riding trains together, sharing in a treasure hunt as I told him how much it hurt to live with my grandmother.

  “Not to stop you,” he said, after I had recounted the awkward car ride to Moustiers, “but the train has stopped, and this is not a station.”

  As if reading his mind, a voice crackled to life in the PA. It announced something incomprehensible in French, but whatever it was, it turned Valentin’s face pale.

  “What? What is it?”

  “The train is late,” he replied, looking like he had just shown up to a test without any clothes on. I blushed as the thought crossed my mind, embarrassed the innocent image had shifted so far.<
br />
  “But didn’t you say that was normal?” I asked, “not to worry about the things I can’t change and…”

  “This is the only bus to Les Baux for two hours,” he said, “if we miss it, we will not make it in time to look for the clue and get back on the last bus.”

  “Shit,” I replied.

  “Merde.” He agreed.

  The train started moving again, but slower than before. America slow. I tapped my fingers nervously against the velvet of my seat, urging the train to move faster, to catch up its missing time.

  Valentin threw his backpack on his back and rose from his seat, heading to the door. I followed suit, watching the greenery roll past, nature oblivious to our wracked nerves.

  It was only when we started arriving in Avignon that things turned ugly. Large walls surrounded the tracks, covered in graffiti, and the train slowed, practically tiptoeing between the buildings.

  “Come on, come on,” I found myself muttering. I clutched the strap of my bag, my heart pounding. We were ready.

  “Dépêche toi! We are going to miss it!”

  The second the train rolled into Avignon station, Valentin slammed his thumb against the door release and toppled out onto the platform, ignoring all suggestions to mind the step. I rushed after him, hitting the pavement and following him down stairs only to climb them right back up on the other side.

  “Cours, Forest!” yelled some random stranger waiting for his own train, as Valentin yanked open the station doors, only for us to rush right though, pushing past people waiting with their suitcases. The smell of fresh crepes hit my nostrils instantly, only to be ripped away when we burst into sunlight on the other side, right at the feet of a castle.

  Well, not an actual castle: the castle’s ramparts, extending left and right down the street. I wanted to stop and stare, but Valentin was already running towards a dark architectural mess.

  I was out of breath, but he wasn’t waiting for me. He flew down the stairs, rushing into a small waiting room, where people milled around checking bus schedules. We burst out into an underground bus terminal, Valentin seemingly instinctively knowing where to go. My footsteps echoed across the large room as we ran, finally reaching the line that was milling into the bus. We stopped, relieved, neither of us having to say anything, both aware of how close we’d come to missing it.