I’m sitting in a little garden, just off the main road between Sciences Po campus and the Wellesley-in-Aix center. Just to my left is the Musée du Pavillon de Vendôme, a stout yellow building with rows and rows of tall windows framed by stone garlands. It’s just after lunchtime, sunny with a slight breeze, and there are lots of people here taking advantage of the pleasant weather. I can hear the leaves of the trees above me rustling in the wind, interspersing with the honks of cars on the road nearby and the crunch of gravel underfoot as two people stroll by, taking photos in front of a topiary. I can smell the cool air – it rained a few days ago and since then it’s felt a lot more cool and crisp in the air, replacing the heavy humidity that characterized our first two weeks here. I’m sitting on a rock ledge on the edge of the gardens, and the stone feels cool under my hands. There are a few fallen leaves on the ledge beside me, brown and crunchy and covered in a thin layer of dirt. Yet another sign of summer’s passing and the steady emergence of fall.

There are rows of topiaries decorating the garden’s center and encircling a small fountain. It’s interesting to observe the conversations between humans and nature occurring here. I remember learning in one of my art history classes at Wellesley that these kinds of highly stylized topiaries are typical of the seventeenth-century French gardening style, symbolizing the power of man over nature. At Versailles, Louis, XIV employed this style on a massive scale to convey his absolute power over the landscape and, by extension, his people. However, tucked off to the side of this garden under my little canopy of branches, I view the relationship between visitor and landscape as much more intimate. Stumbling upon this space while strolling down the street, I felt welcomed, like a friend gently beckoning me in for a chat or cup of coffee. As I adjust to my life in this new city, I am grateful for the invitation.