Yesterday I went on my first hike with MJC Prévert, an organization here in Aix that offers classes in everything from painting to improv comedy and leads hikes in different areas throughout the region of Provence every Tuesday and Thursday. This works out perfectly for me and a few of my friends in the AUCP program, since none of us have classes on Tuesdays and this means we can get out of the city and explore our surroundings a bit. It's not too expensive, either. And with MJC Prévert, a self-proclaimed "maison des jeunes et de la culture," we figured we would meet some fellow students.
Turns out these randonnés — hikes/walks. Hard to translate, since it's suuuuch a French thing — are catered more toward the retired set. Abby, Kiely and I were the youngest ones there by decades. We also stood out because all three of us were wearing some type of athletic short while all the French retraités were in pants. French people are not, how you say, into ze working out, so as ubiquitous as the Nike running shorts might be in the U.S., it's the complete opposite here. As soon as our fellow ramblers saw us, they squinted through their prescription spectacles, tightened their hand-knitted sweaters around their waists, and clapped their arthritic hands together with glee. "Oh, nous avons des petites américaines avec nous!"
Ok, they weren't really that old.
We went to the Luberon and drove up, up, up the mountain until we were at the very top where the limestone was covered in cedar trees. It was a national forest that spanned all along the valley (I think) and we hiked along cliffs and past caves, all the while gawking at the view of the valley spread out before us. The hike was scheduled to last about three hours, and after two we stopped for a snack break. We had been told to bring water and an "en-cas," a snack, with us. I had bought a few packages of crackers filled with dried fruit and I shared them with Kiely and Abby. A snack, quoi! The French had a different idea of what constituted a snack, though, and we soon learned this as eagerly generous French woman after eagerly generous French woman came by the boulder where the three of us had decided to perch, extending tupperware containers of homemade treats.
First there were smoked almonds. Then there was coconut cake (it was a man's birthday, and after taking a slice we went and on lui a fait la bise, we kissed him once on each cheek). Then there were figs from someone's garden. Then there were dried figs stuffed with almonds. Then there was cake again. Then there was biscotti. Then there was cake AGAIN. And then there was coffee.
I drew the line after the biscotti. Kiely had to eat two pieces of my cake — since it was basically impossible to refuse to take any — I wasn't sure if she would make it back to the bus alive. Abby dissolved into hysterical laughter, probably brought on by sugar overdose, upon seeing the swarms of people descending upon us, brandishing their spécialités personelles. I tried to keep straight face and politely refused any coffee, certain that it would be the last straw. And nobody likes a projectile vomiter.
We rambled back to the bus and drove the hour back to Aix. Kiely was hungry, naturally, upon arrival, so we went to the best pizza stand in town, Pizza Capri, and bought slices. We sat on a bench in the sun along the Cours Mirabeau, lazily watching people stroll by and enjoying the tired feeling in our legs.
I'm looking forward to next week!
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