High Angoisse

I wasn’t too concerned about my plane crashing. An Air France flight went down last month, so I figured the chances were slim of one going down with me in it. Instead I fussed over who might sit next to me. As various people approached I would think “No, not you … or you … but I'm ok with you … and … no? Oh well, too bad … ” I ended up with a quiet middle-aged couple. I was lucky. The girl in front of me got stuck with a toddler and her mother holding a younger sibling on her lap. Perhaps encouraged by the two howling babies across from them in the center row, the little people ahead of me screamed bloody murder for the first and last hour of the trip.

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Today we visited what I am told is a typical French grocery store. In France it seems you have farmers' markets, and mega-super-stores, and very little in between. This morning Kurt went to the village market here in Saint Cannat for our fruits and veggies before I’d emerged from my jet-lagged stupor. But we still needed staples like yogurt and booze. So after meeting Guillaume’s dad Guy in scenic Cassis for lunch by the marina, Kurt and I set out for supplies to see us through the next few days at Mama Claude’s house. I don’t remember what the store was called. I was too busy being overwhelmed by its vastness. I’m not sure how large a football field is, but this place could for sure fit a few of them. They had everything there, and in dizzying quantities and varieties. Just trying to pick out snack cookies and wine made me anxious. So many to choose from – what if I got it wrong? (See The Paradox of Choice.) It reminded me of a grocery emporium in Ontario that my mother used to frequent called Knob Hill Farms. She had that place down pat. Armed with a list organized to make her way as efficiently as possible through aisles spanning areas the size of city blocks, she’d barrel her cart around, occasionally admonishing me to keep up. Besides finding the French super-store intimidating, I think at some level I also feared being flattened by a Provencale version of my mother.

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Last year Guy and Claude chauffered us around Provence. This year we opted for autonomy and rented a car. Kurt is a good travel companion because, among other things, he has a sense of direction. I often reflect that I would be lost without him, and this is true now more than ever. My navigation skills are terrible, and I can’t read signs without my glasses but am blinded by the sun when I don’t wear my shades.  So I was relieved when Guy lent us his GPS. We selected a British English voice and now have an upper-class male telling us where to go and when we’re driving too fast.  We call him Monty, although this is subject to change as we get to know him better. We have to turn him up real loud so we can hear him above our driving playlist. Otherwise this happens:

Monty: In 300 meters, blah blah blah.

Kurt: What did he say?

Me: I don’t know, but Tina Turner sure is great, isn’t she?

Kurt: She sure is. And what a set of gams. Did you know she’s the same age as my mom?

Me: You don’t say.

Kurt: Where are we anyway?

Monty: Route recalculation …

He is very helpful. I could use a Monty for a whole range of daily activities.

Oh yeah, and Provence is a cesspool and the food is horrible.