Today we escaped “the cell.”
Kris had reached the conclusion that our little Aix apartment had perhaps been oversold by the adjective cozy and announced that she needed to get out. The timing was fortuitous. For several weeks we'd been talking about seeing the Calanques, particularly after our dear friend and inveterate world traveler Carrie Wood placed them among her top-five destinations.
That was endorsement enough.
We rented a car, packed dramatically smaller bags, abandoned the big checked luggage in the apartment Kris had now christened the cell, and hit the road. Less than an hour later we arrived in Cassis, where our hotel immediately spoiled us with the forgotten luxuries of space, separate bedrooms, and room to move without negotiating passage around a suitcase.
The weather was overcast, unfortunately, so the girls managed only about 45 minutes in the pool before surrendering.
From there, we drove just outside town and climbed the Route des Crêtes, the spectacular cliff road overlooking Cassis and the Mediterranean. From high above the coast, we stared down upon the little town, its harbor tucked against the sea, with the rugged limestone coastline unfurling beyond it. Even beneath an overcast sky, the panorama was immense—rock, water, and civilization compressed into a single view.
We returned to the hotel, got the girls fed and settled, and then Mom and Dad wandered down toward the harbor for wine.
Cassis was magnificent.
We sat along the waterfront with a glass of local wine before heading to Le Grand Large for dinner. There we were treated to sashimi, a beautiful bottle of Cassis wine, and a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean as the sky slowly combusted into purple, pink, red, and orange.
God, it was beautiful.
I've been thinking more lately about the arithmetic of a human life. At 44, actuarial tables might suggest that, statistically, I have something on the order of 12,000 sunsets left. Maybe I get far more. Maybe far fewer. None of us gets to know the number.
Twelve thousand sounds like a lot until you realize you've already watched more than sixteen thousand of them—and barely remember most.
Perhaps that's one of the unexpected gifts of this trip. The combination of unfamiliar places and, just as importantly, having the time to actually notice them has made the ordinary conspicuous again. A meal, a conversation, the color of the sky—things that might disappear into the background of an ordinary day have become worthy of attention. Tonight there was nowhere else we needed to be, and nothing more important than watching the sun disappear into the Mediterranean.
Another glorious CWT day.
I don't know how many sunsets I have left. I'm just trying to miss fewer of them.