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| A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life. WAVE Journey is your one stop online resource for women oriented businesses and services around the world. WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one online resource. Perplexing Provence ~ Article and photos by Marie Peyre |
| WAVE Journey |
| Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
When I suggested to boyfriend Paul recently that he
accompany me on a last minute long weekend trip back
home, I wasn't sure how I would entertain my guest for the
duration of our stay. I was going primarily to spend some
time with my mum, whom I hadn't visited in ages, and hadn't
really given too much thought to what we would do, or see.
But I knew he would have a good time nonetheless, so I
offered.
My family still lives in Marseilles. Yes, that's the south of
France. It's funny how the moment you say those three little
words, one thought, and one thought only, seems to spring
to everybody's mind: sun. Not so. Or at least not so in
winter. You are about as likely to be walking around
Provence in a T-shirt between October and April as you are
to leave the office before dark in Anchorage during the same
months.
Paul had never been to Provence (although he had visited
the land of my ancestors on two occasions before) but he
had agreed to that little escapade on the spot. Of course.
After all, you could do a lot worse than flying off, midwinter,
to some pretty Mediterranean seaside town for the
weekend. Even if temperatures are not guaranteed to be as
mild as later in the spring, the weather is still bound to be
significantly warmer than in the Big Apple.
accompany me on a last minute long weekend trip back
home, I wasn't sure how I would entertain my guest for the
duration of our stay. I was going primarily to spend some
time with my mum, whom I hadn't visited in ages, and hadn't
really given too much thought to what we would do, or see.
But I knew he would have a good time nonetheless, so I
offered.
My family still lives in Marseilles. Yes, that's the south of
France. It's funny how the moment you say those three little
words, one thought, and one thought only, seems to spring
to everybody's mind: sun. Not so. Or at least not so in
winter. You are about as likely to be walking around
Provence in a T-shirt between October and April as you are
to leave the office before dark in Anchorage during the same
months.
Paul had never been to Provence (although he had visited
the land of my ancestors on two occasions before) but he
had agreed to that little escapade on the spot. Of course.
After all, you could do a lot worse than flying off, midwinter,
to some pretty Mediterranean seaside town for the
weekend. Even if temperatures are not guaranteed to be as
mild as later in the spring, the weather is still bound to be
significantly warmer than in the Big Apple.
Aside from the delightful prospect of spending three days in my company, Paul might have been
further enticed, I suspect, by the near certainty that he would at long last have the opportunity
to sample some of the world famous local 'cuisine' while sipping his favourite tipple (Marseille is
home to the bouillabaisse, a rockfish soup specialty… and pastis).
Not so again. Whatever ideas he might have harbored about France in general, and Provence
in particular, were about to be seriously challenged. The elements, and my mother, made sure
of that.
We landed late on the Saturday night, under pelting rain. It does not rain very often in
Marseilles, not even in winter, but when it does, it pours. It was almost 10 o'clock when we
eventually made it back to the house after a long, laborious drive from the airport. We were all
a bit peckish by then, so my mother suggested we go out for a bite somewhere local, and
venture into town next evening instead.
Ten minutes later, Rue des Chutes Lavie, we stop outside Chez Momo, my mum's local: a good,
no-frills north African restaurant. I feel a bit guilty. Although Paul, who's never had couscous
before, assures me he would love to give it a go, I can't help but think that maybe tonight we
should take him somewhere he could have a more traditional fare. Surely, even a simple steak
frites would be more appropriate a choice of menu for his first evening in Provence? Too late.
My mother has already pushed the door open so we follow her inside.
A few minutes later, we're placing our order. Our dishes arrive in record time and we tuck in.
Thankfully, the cooking is a lot better than the cheap, greasy stained menu presaged, and the
food is delicious. Paul, for whom I have ordered a couscous royal, is not overly taken by harissa
(a very hot chilli paste) but he discovers he loves merguez, a spicy red beef sausage popular
with Muslims, who cannot eat pork, and couscous. That more than makes up for it. He enjoys
the selection of pastries we get for dessert too (out of greediness more than hunger), and,
although he is normally a coffee drinker, finds the mint tea ('on the house', our waitress informs
us… we must qualify as good customers, having each ordered a starter and a main course)
tasty and refreshing.
Not a bad result. Admittedly not the kind of French gourmet experience one might expect, but a
good one all the same. Tomorrow we'll see something more 'authentic' I think to myself before
going to bed.
Continued on next page.
further enticed, I suspect, by the near certainty that he would at long last have the opportunity
to sample some of the world famous local 'cuisine' while sipping his favourite tipple (Marseille is
home to the bouillabaisse, a rockfish soup specialty… and pastis).
Not so again. Whatever ideas he might have harbored about France in general, and Provence
in particular, were about to be seriously challenged. The elements, and my mother, made sure
of that.
We landed late on the Saturday night, under pelting rain. It does not rain very often in
Marseilles, not even in winter, but when it does, it pours. It was almost 10 o'clock when we
eventually made it back to the house after a long, laborious drive from the airport. We were all
a bit peckish by then, so my mother suggested we go out for a bite somewhere local, and
venture into town next evening instead.
Ten minutes later, Rue des Chutes Lavie, we stop outside Chez Momo, my mum's local: a good,
no-frills north African restaurant. I feel a bit guilty. Although Paul, who's never had couscous
before, assures me he would love to give it a go, I can't help but think that maybe tonight we
should take him somewhere he could have a more traditional fare. Surely, even a simple steak
frites would be more appropriate a choice of menu for his first evening in Provence? Too late.
My mother has already pushed the door open so we follow her inside.
A few minutes later, we're placing our order. Our dishes arrive in record time and we tuck in.
Thankfully, the cooking is a lot better than the cheap, greasy stained menu presaged, and the
food is delicious. Paul, for whom I have ordered a couscous royal, is not overly taken by harissa
(a very hot chilli paste) but he discovers he loves merguez, a spicy red beef sausage popular
with Muslims, who cannot eat pork, and couscous. That more than makes up for it. He enjoys
the selection of pastries we get for dessert too (out of greediness more than hunger), and,
although he is normally a coffee drinker, finds the mint tea ('on the house', our waitress informs
us… we must qualify as good customers, having each ordered a starter and a main course)
tasty and refreshing.
Not a bad result. Admittedly not the kind of French gourmet experience one might expect, but a
good one all the same. Tomorrow we'll see something more 'authentic' I think to myself before
going to bed.
Continued on next page.