Aix en Provence spoke to me not in language, but in imagery…through fountains, churches, art, architecture, and…delectables.

Light, squared

Split scene

Fountain des Quatre-Dauphins

Morning market
setup at sunrise

Agents of Mediation

Walking through old town, one is beset with storefront windows displaying masterful creations of chocolates,

Honey, almonds,
egg white deliciousness

pastries, breads, jewelry…ad infinitum. I walked with a daily mantra: “These are like paintings one cannot touch — only contemplate and appreciate.” There’s something else about Aix — it has an ethereal light that transmutes any scene into a dramatic canvas.

Within this space and in one day, two experiences lit my world with fresh perspective…

ExOne: A man and his dog spent their days on my corner square. Sometimes I’d watch them from above through my apartment window. He was middle-aged and wore a baseball cap atop a bald head. His medium-sized black dog had an aging gray muzzle and wore a black coverlet. They’d arrive between 10 and 11:00 a.m. The man would take a small black cup from his backpack and place it on the low stone wall. A larger white plastic cup was always filled with beverage, but I never saw him pour into it. He’d sit down next to the cups, get out a paperback book and begin reading, his dog curled at his feet. He never begged. To passers-by, he called out a “Bonjour” or “Bon année (Happy New Year)”. Some folks would stop to talk with him awhile. To newcomers, the dog would bark until acknowledged, then lie back down. One day, a young woman gave him a medium-weight khaki jacket to replace his lightweight denim. Occasionally, he’d walk his dog ten feet to the nearby tree. As the day progressed, there was less reading and more drinking. His greetings got a bit louder and he’d put on the headset someone had given him, shake his head, and mumble. Between 8-9:00 p.m., they’d be gone. Next day, repeat. Curiously, his predictable presence and the dog’s bark became familiar to me, almost a comfort. After two weeks, I wanted to meet this man and his dog.

Wolfgang

On my last morning, I approached him. What I couldn’t see from the window is that he was remarkably clean shaven. And he had piercings in the top and bottom of his right ear that held a vertical spear-like earring.  Speaking French I said, “I’ve seen you here every day, you seem like a good person.” He was startled. I held a euro bill and pointed, “Is this cup for you?” He nodded to his dog. “For me and him.” He spoke English! I was going to throw away an extra eye patch and earplugs and asked if he wanted them. He replied, “When you live on zee streets, you have to keep zee eyes open. But machines, they make dah dah dah dat dat (he mimicked holding a jackhammer) and good to not hear.Thank you.” He put them in his backpack. “My name is Heidi. What is your name?” “Pogue. People call me Pogue.” And the dog? He said a foreign name I can’t remember and added with concern, “He has fourteen years. Last week, he had brain problem. Now, every morning I wake and tap for life.” He thought for a second and said, “My real name is Wolfgang. I’m German.” “You speak French, German, and English?” “Yes. But people don’t speak English here. I try to speak English with some people,” he said with a dismissive wave of his arm, “but they only know how to say ‘Fuck off’ or ‘Suck my dick’.” My turn to be startled. I quickly switched subjects. “I see you reading. What kind of books do you like?” “Criminal. Blood. I know Stephen King, most.” I wish I would have asked him how a man who speaks and reads in three languages got there, but I had to catch a train. (Or was I simply uneasy after that indecorous phrase?)

ExTwo: The train schedule from Aix en Provence to Grasse had an hour layover in Cannes. There, as in various stations throughout France, stood an upright piano with a sign that read, “À vous de jouer” or, “it’s your turn to play”. I had gone for a walkabout and reentered the station to hear a breathtaking composition. A young hipster dude (wearing a knit cap and one of those beards one sees frequently on those of his age) was playing the piano, wholly engaged in the music. His left hand worked wonders while his right hand moved up and down the keys. Inexplicably modern and classical at the same time, his fervor and emotion electrified the station air. I stood transfixed with awe. “He’s got to be on his way to a gig with a famous band that I don’t know,” I thought. He stopped playing, gathered his pack, and left. Minutes later, I saw him standing outside the station.

Playing for the World

“Excuse me, but thank you. Thank you for your music,” I said in English. At first he didn’t seem to understand, then he smiled. Most of his teeth were missing. He pointed to the tent on his back, and clasped a cross or rosary? necklace. In broken English he replied with a frenetic zeal, “My music is for the world.” I wish I would have asked him where he learned to play, but I had a train to catch. (Or did I just suspect imminent proselytizing?)

Yes, Aix en Provence is an alluring city brimming with history, creativity, light and sophistication. Yet more impactful and memorable, was the human connection. Sweet Tally at the bakery, smiling Marco at the pizzeria. Naima and Christophe at the gym. And of course, Pogue and MusicMan. I’ve never encountered such winsomeness in the face of the homeless — I’ve never taken the moment. Next time, I may or may not stop, but at least I’ll look at you, and acknowledge your presence as a fellow human being.

Fare Well

“Who are You?” — The Who