I have never felt spring emerge the way I have in Aix-en-Provence. When we arrived, the plane trees were ghostly bare and the shoppers at the outdoor markets were still bowing to the wind, heads down and tucked into beautiful french scarves. In two short weeks the shiver has been replaced by billowing trees and saffron-colored bouquets of the seasons first blooms. Shoppers linger in the markets to listen to musicians while feasting on quiche lorraine and sipping fruity vin rosé. Bulbs are pushing through with ferocious tenacity and the wine makers are praying that no frost will follow the warmth of these early spring days. Everyone is outside any chance that arises for every possible moment. Cafes set up tables in every corner square, families teeter on the edge of fountains, and people watchers perch on bar stools along the Cours Mirabeau. What a glorious experience to witness spring beaming through the Provence countryside, all from the comfort of our temporary home in the Paris of the south, locals simply call “X.”
