Page 111 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

The ambiance here feels different from Northern France. I walk down the block towards a demonstrative-looking woman swiftly sweeping in front of her shop. She smiles and encourages me to come in. Lavender’s spilling out of every basket and vase. The fragrance is different from cellophane gift basket lotions and candles from home. This lavender is rich and luxurious. The scent envelops me, and I feel decadent by proximity. My melancholy could diffuse and dampen the spirit of these provincial patterns.

I sit down on the newly swept step and wait for Anna. Taking a series of pictures from my vantage point. Shots calling to me in every direction. I fucking love those voices in my head. I adjust the shutter speed and ease my finger over the button, bracing my elbows trying to capture the bee inside of the lavender bundle.

I check, and I got him. I sit back on my hands and let the sun spill onto my face. People walk by and say good morning repeatedly. I’ve been to Paris, and I always feel like a visitor. No one lets you forget you’ve got a return flight. But Marseille makes me feel as if they never want me to leave. Maybe it’s because it’s a port city and they’re used to people coming in and out of their lives, so they make the moments count.

Live for today, eat the freshest food, drink the best wine because tomorrow it may be gone. I start to come alive a bit, and for a moment I forget all my problems. I want to see the aqueducts tomorrow, but the open market and this town are today. Marseille reveals its story much sooner than I expected.

Anna rushes to me with two shopping bags full of soap. “How are you getting it all home?”

“I don’t care. I’m going to smell like this gorgeous place for the next year. Come on. Fuck Brad. I won’t say fuck off to your mother though, that’s on you.”

“Fuck off Nan! Fuck off Brad! Oh, what did Shep say? Did you tell him about the fight?” I raise my hand in the air and stand up.

“He helped me cash in those tickets for here. And made cannoli.”

“Perfect. And he can take apart an engine. Handy to have around. Let’s go. Just us today.”

I link my arm with hers. “Just us and a shit ton of soap.”

We spend the day becoming keen observers of bounty, of the over saturation of spirit, wine, color, food, and joy. Overabundance.

I marvel at the colors. I doubt it exists in its true form away from the Mediterranean. The graffiti that overtakes neighborhoods tells everyone else’s stories and I photograph those too. I photograph the life that people idealize. It turns out it has been hiding in the south of France.

Anna flops down in an open cafe chair across from me and says, “It’s too perfect here. We need wine!”

A jovial waitress brings us wine, and I have no idea what I’m drinking. Eventually she sits down with me to explain the best stuff on the menu. “I’ll just surprise you.” I’m thrilled she speaks English, finally someone not speaking French.

KAT: We’re here. {Insert picture of cafe}

ZANE: I’m a stair climb away. I’ll be there in a second. Order me something. Balcony tomorrow.

KAT: Yeah!

ZANE: But you have to film with me.

KAT: BOO.

KAT: Wait, are we that kind of couple now, that I order you food?