We had initially planned to stop at Parc National des Calanques on our way from the Marseille airport to Cassis, but it was so windy that day that it wouldn't have been a pleasant walk from the parking lot to the views we were after. We decided to save that excursion for the only hypothetical "next" trip to France. The drive the rest of the way to Cassis was surprising and gave us more of an idea of the rugged landscape we would be encountering for the next few days--undulating ivory rock and, as if spread thinly over top, a highland green marmalade. A landscape that I had presumed would only exist in scarce patches flowed forth in abundant and generous bounds.
Once in Cassis, we had to regain our feet, our footing, find the ground beneath them again, and so we walked, sometimes retracing our steps. It was hard to stray too far from the water and the light of the port which retreated in the narrow streets of the commune. There was a wonderful quiet and emptiness about the place, all the life concentrated in the restaurants that lined the harbor, only remnants of it lingered, holed itself up, on the beach.
Without haste or hunger, we watched the sun fall. There was this deep satisfaction in standing there, an assurance that we weren't missing out on something else, something better.
Afterwards we headed to Le Grand Bleu for dinner where I, painstakingly at first, set out to eat a whole fish.
I realized after ordering it I was not yet brave enough to look my food in its eyes, at least not for the duration of the meal, where I could only imagine its eyes rolling on my plate in the most unnatural and inconvenient of ways (rolling underneath the potatoes or onto the tablecloth). I only had the stomach for a couple of glances, when the waitress would bring the dead, glistening fish over to us on a platter, as if we were meant to deliberate on the matter a bit longer before they fully committed to tossing the thing in olive oil and sticking it in the oven.
Then, without further warning, the fish in its fish form stopped being presented to us. What was brought to us next was unrecognizable. It did not look or smell like Fred the fish. Thank God. Instead, it was as nondescript as tofu but as rich and savory as butter.
Our bellies full, we headed to Aix en Provence...
