24 August 2019

The new day dawned and we awoke, eager to hit the road and see what awaited us 3.5 hours over the border in our soon to be new home, Aix en Provence. We had a quick swim, packed the car and hit the road, albeit around 11am once we actually got sorted. 

(Side note: we have been talking about how manageable the traffic has been throughout our trip to date. We were expecting Amalfi Coast style traffic jams any time we got anywhere near the coast or anything of touristic interest around Spain and Portugal during our travels, and they had never eventuated) 

(Side note 2: the first piece of advice our French friends gave us was do not – I repeat do not – travel in summer on a Saturday across France. It’s changeover day across Europe, when not only all the French are moving around doing their thing, but also countless British, Belgian, Dutch and Scandavians (in their SUVs piled high with Thule boxes and mountain bikes) are whizzing across France, trying desperately to get to the Med; or alternatively make their way sadly back home, their blackened bodies indicating that they have had their fill of the sun for the next 50 or so weeks. 

And if you must travel on a Saturday, you must do it early, or be prepared to sit in the car and go absolutely nowhere). 

We were warned about this 7 weeks ago and had, unfortunately since forgotten. We also didn’t realise that it was Saturday because, well, who cares what day of the week it is? 

Unfortunately for us, the rest of Europe does. The minute we hit the border with France, the traffic stopped. Literally. Google Maps spiked from 4 hours to 6 hours. Bonnie, squashed between Liz’s legs, started to look longingly at his comparatively roomy caravan on the roof. Liz on the phone, stalling our check in time. The kids going crazy in preparation for going crazy later after what would be an inevitably long day of ipad watching. Pitch Perfect 2 at least 3 times over (and for the 358th time – if Anthony didn’t throw the ipad out of the window in despair). 

At least the Test Match was on. 6 hours of Test Match Special and a very slow tour of southern France (from a ‘view from the motorway’ perspective, actually not as nice as it sounds), interspersed with the joys of the French ‘Aires’ (rest stops) when they are swarmed by holiday traffic and it takes longer to go to the bathroom than at a concert. 

Liz quickly put on her headphones on to try and drown out the sounds of Jonathan Agnew and Geoffrey Boycott. Only Bonnie had (literally) nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

Some 6.5 hours later we pulled into Aix-en-Provence, to see for the first time the city that would be our home for the next 9 months or so. 

It was 6 weeks and more than 7,500kms since we landed in Lyon. We had travelled through 4 countries and stayed in 15 different cities. We had learned to travel, how to be responsible for our own stuff, how to endure long car rides and how to eat out at 10pm without an ipad and without getting thrown out of the restaurant. We had learned about different cultures and languages, and how to say a few words in each. We had learned how to make friends, even if we couldn’t speak their language. We had learned about the Romans, the Moors, the Middle Ages, religion, the Renaissance, the Age of Discovery and the French Revolution. We had learned about surrealism, cubism and modernism. We had learned how to swim, to snorkel and to sail. We had learned how to live out of each others’ pockets for 6 weeks and not kill each other – almost all the time. 

We all agreed that this part of the trip had been an amazing success, and we were ready to start the new chapter. To trade backpacks and suitcases for school uniforms and homework. To sleep in the same place for more than 3 nights in a row. To learn French (to whatever level we could). To put down some roots and make some friends. To work out whether we had made the right call to stop our lives in Australia and be here for the next 8 months. 

We do not know Aix and have no friends here. 

We came here for lunch about 15 years ago with Anthony’s Mum and Dad. It was a lovely lunch, but not really the basis of selecting a place to live for the better part of a school year. Nestled in the midst of Provence, in the Provence-Alpes-Cotes d’Azur region (now how can that be bad?), Aix boasts lots of sunshine (some 300 days a year), is a renowned market town, 30 minutes from the Med, 2 hours from ski fields (not the ‘real Alps’ but if you’re comparing things to Charlottes Pass, you’re likely to come out ahead almost anywhere in France, and a daytrip was a daytrip) and a renowned cycling destination. It turns gold and purple every spring with the sunflowers and lavender and has lots of interesting history, culture and amazing architecture.  

Sounds promising. 

But could we live there? 

Sometimes the most mundane cities that make the best homes, and the ‘nicer’ a place is, the more transient the population and the more ‘hidden’ the locals tend to be. (It’s hard to meet French people if they’re either hidden under a pile of tourists or so jaded by the perpetual throng that they have no interest in meeting anyone new)

We had travelled enough and lived in enough countries and cultures to back ourselves to meet people and to make friends. We had chosen the school carefully (a bilingual school called IBS) to give us a mix of both locals and expats so as to not completely break the girls. 

From our limited research, people tended to live either ‘in town’ (an apartment in the centre ville) or in the country (ideally with a garden and a pool). There is no real suburbia like there is in Sydney (we love this about France). 

We had tossed around various options for a while, and ultimately had chosen to live smack bang in the centre of town, about as far away from Gladesville as we could possibly imagine. We had visions of morning coffees, shopping for local produce at the markets and stepping out for an afternoon ‘apero’ before coming home to our beautifully cooked provencale dinner (not sure where the kids feature in all that, but let’s not let reality get in the way of a good daydream). 

We would be close to the action, close to markets, cafes, restaurants and language classes, but some 7kms away from school (in the country, surrounded by the houses of all the expats and wealthy French families who had chosen the country house + pool option). We would also be on the 4th floor of an old building (walk up, lifts weren’t invented when this place was built) – which would be an interesting test for Bonnie’s aging bladder. 

If our choice ended up being a poor one (or Bonnie’s bladder couldn’t cope) we would retreat to the country for the beginning of 2020, and pretend like we were in Gladesville speaking French.

The pictures suggested we were lucky enough to have wonderful views over the rooftops to the forests and mountains beyond… and also parking (a mere 200m away – which we would find out subsequently was wide enough to fit a horse, but extremely challenging to fit a Duster). 

We could do this. 

But first we had to get up the stairs. 

There was something lovely about the idea of having a deck overlooking the rooftops and churches of the old town with the forests and mountains beyond – but the appeal was slightly lost as we were madly trying to unpack our stuff whilst illegally parked and get it up the Esher like stairwell that loomed above us. We would all be iron-people by the end of our four months here. 

We piled into our new home – a 3 bedroom apartment with bedrooms downstairs and a large lounge/kitchen/dining room and deck upstairs – the girls rapidly negotiating who would get their own room. Ellie just pipped Sena at the post by playing the age card (we are sure they’re all going to end up in the same room anyway). 

From first glance, Aix appears to be as beautiful as its reputation, and almost as crowded with tourists. The centre of the city does seem to be lacking in grass – so Bonnie is going to have to learn to adapt and be a city dog – and basically to poo on pavements… something he has never done. Hopefully we can teach this old dog new tricks, or he is going to be very unwell. 

Once we dumped our stuff we headed into town for a quick explore and pizza for dinner. The amount of attention that Bonnie got walking around was incredible – it seemed every second person would say ‘C’est un beau chien’ or ‘What a beautiful dog’. We were inclined to agree. He was going to be fine here. 

If only he could find some grass to poo on.