I just realized, in my slowness to post about glorious post-trip France, I have neglected beautiful Aix-en-Provence (and Marseille).

A mere oversight.

Although to be honest, I don’t have all that much to say about Aix.

We left Avignon early afternoon. Of course we had full intentions of an earlier departure but I ran into a probleme: too much stuff for too little of a suitcase.

This was the first trip in my life that I had successfully packed light – no, it wasn’t just chance that the same clothes keep reoccurring in my photos, it was factual lack of packing space.

It was quite a feat. I wasn’t going to have all that master packing ruined by having to buy another valise.

Instead, I opted for la poste.

It took me approximately 13 minutes to get there, and that was with the huge bag I was lugging along. I was feeling so cool that not once did I get lost, nor did I have to look at the map.

I navigated those crazy, narrow side streets like a real francaise.

Now I’ve been in a number of post offices during my trips abroad. This wasn’t a new thing. But it was when having to figure out mailing a huge package.

Once one of the employees explained it to me, it seemed rather simple: pick your mailing size, put your stuff in and pay.

How easy is that?

I definitely thought so, till I went to pay. There wasn’t anything I had correctly filled out, so I had to re-do that. There was then a rather lengthy exchange on the contents I was mailing.

After ten minutes of making sure I didn’t have anything that would explode or rot, we were good to go. I was told, Merci and Au revoir.

I went to leave, and realized I hadn’t paid. Why didn’t they ask me for payment?

Apparently, they did. I just didn’t know they did. And apparently I had told them that I had already paid.

None of this I recall ever having happened. So I paid my 40 Euros though technically I didn’t have to (which would have bothered me indefinitely) and walked as fast as my cute sandals would allow.

Bid aideu to Jean and Elisabeth at Lumani, somehow managed to get our bags in the car while it was in the driveway, and then begged Jean to pull the car out.

No way would I have been able to do that. And I really didn’t feel like having to explain a dent to Avis.

We left and I promptly took a wrong turn. Not that this was my fault — the sign we needed was totally unmarked.

I had no choice but to commit to our route. Which was the smallest street I have ever driven on in my life.

I could feel TE’s tires hitting the curb. We barely fit. Maman was in full panic.

How, she wanted to know, was it possible to maneuver our way out? What would we do? And what the hell would we do if we were faced with an oncoming car?

The last one was easiest to answer: no one’s going to take on a huge ass Mercedes that’s plowing through town. They’ll move.

But she had a point. We were in the busiest part of Avignon’s streets, that were more pedestrian than anything.

It was a sight out of a third world country, minus the Mercedes, the clothes hanging out to dry and nicely dressed tourists. Us creeping along at 5mph through a sea of people.

Me honking the horn so said tourists could appropriately scatter to the side as to not be hit.

This was beginning to be a bit much for Maman. She was sure I was either going to: a. hit someone or b. run into something or someone with the car.

I ignored the momentary hysteria and channeled my inner Frenchie. I got this.

And I did.

It took 20 minutes to get us out of there and I spent the whole time praying to the Popes for some help. And blaring Coldplay. Chris Martin keeps me calm.

Regardless of not being Catholic, I figured prayers could only help not harm.

Unless the dead Popes are prejudiced against us non-Catholics. Certainly not in death, too, right?

When we finally made it out of there and got on the road, I stopped at the first gas station I could for a celebratory drink.

A beer for Maman. A Diet Coke for me. I know, living life on the edge.

We had our wonderful detour at Le Pont du Gard (see earlier post) and an hour later followed that up by a lovely detour at Chateau de Calavon in Lambesc.

Yet another one of those amazing, family owned and run wineries. Slightly off the beaten path.

Maman and I were immediately taken. It could have been the pool inside, that used to be the drinking station for horses back in the 1600’s when the place was an inn.

Or it just might have been the super sleek, swank, minimalist vibe they had going on.

Or maybe the very (add a few more verys in there) cute and very charming wine host … if only I could remember his name.

Either way, we were had.

I stayed true to only one full wine tasting, and then little sips of the others … all were divine.

Of course, just like at Chateau du Vieux Parc, we felt utterly obligated to purchase.

I had no clue what we were now going to do with 13 bottles of wine, besides drink them. But we’d figure that out later.

After Cavalon, we were to Aix in under twenty minutes. Where we were immediately in some crazy traffic.

Per usual, I got lost. Found a Total gas station, and called Villa Roumanille.

Our oh so gracious host, came to pick us up. Quelle chance! Just like Albi, thank you lord.

By the time he found us to the time we made it to Villa Rou (as I called it), an hour and a half had passed.

It was almost 7 p.m. We had to leave in the morning for Marseille.

I was hungry, like clock work, I’m telling ya. And tired. And dying to do yoga. And felt compelled to see what so many French call their favorite city.

Maman and I decided to check things out. We took a nice long walk, streteched the legs, cleared the mind. Found a paninni stand to get something simple.

For some reason I couldn’t fathom eating a huge meal. The thought of it grossed me out. I think by that point I had just done too much eating out.

We returned by 9p.m. Not having seen near as much as I would have liked, but I was okay with that.

All I wanted to do was sit in the gorgeous garden. Get my yoga on. Relax. Take in that medicinal Provencal air.

It worked.

And when I came to, I discovered a bottle of wine waiting outside our door. A Rose. How did Villa Rou know? I have a weak spot for French Roses.

Just what we needed more wine.

I was rather touched by the gesture that was so … so French. So welcoming. So: enjoy yourself, enjoy Provence.

And enjoy we did.

We sat outside very late that night. Savoring the wine, the night sky and that undeniable Provence energie.