When I close my eyes and tune in to my surroundings, I am surrounded by the gentle rustling of leaves as the wind dances through the air. Today is windy—not quite as windy as it was a few weeks ago, but pleasantly breezy—a pleasant counterbalance to the sun’s warmth and yesterday’s humidity. It’s the mi-saison—not quite summer but not quite fall—and some days feel balmy while others are rainy, windy, or chilly. No one quite knows how to dress for this in-between weather (myself included). Either way, I like the wind: the way it pushes my hair out of my face and the fact that I can wear a sweater. And I like the sound of the trees—like they’re whispering to me, telling me secrets in their hushed tones. It can feel weird oscillating between English and French in my head, and I’m still learning not to be so hard on myself when I make mistakes with my grammar or get lost mid-conversation. That being said, it’s comforting to have this little space that is familiar, to hear the trees speak to me in their universal tongue.
In my architecture class the other day, we discussed how the mountains near Aix provide natural protection from the mistral, a local name for the wind that comes here from the north. Thus, while Aix can get pretty windy, it’s not quite as bad as in other, more exposed regions. However, the wind can definitely still pack a punch—I’ve been told you need to learn to stand your ground here, lest the breeze knock you around. The mistral is also partially to thank for the warm, sunny climate of Provence (the region in the south of France where Aix is located), as it clears many clouds and rainstorms from the sky. However, it also contributes to the dryness of the region, reinforcing the importance of water, both historically and in the present day. Fun fact: the name ‘Aix’ comes from the Latin for ‘water’, as Aix was founded by the Romans because of its location on the site of a natural spring. Thus, water is central to the history and identity of the city!
In the soil next to the stone wall where I am sitting, there are dozens of little sprouts valiantly fighting their way free from the earth. They’re of various heights and sizes, bright emerald green with rounded leaves and a waxy texture. They diverge as they grow taller, like water spurting from a fountain. I wonder what kind of plant they are, when they will fully bloom, and how long they will last once the weather starts to change in earnest. I watch them sway softly in the breeze, allowing themselves to be moved while resolutely standing their ground. I am hoping to learn a few things from these little plants in the weeks that remain of my time here: resiliency in the face of uncertainty, pride in one’s true colors, and how to embrace the in-between.
