In my heart there’s nowhere like this. My aunt’s story is a mistral echo, the genêt, lavender and thyme opioids and the dreamy haze that captures a pinkish glow bouncing off the calanques and tree shoulders…a history of war and escape, of hideouts and solidarity. There is a peace out of time here. I can taste it in the wine, read it in the trees, feel it between my toes.
The port in Cassis was quiet. I remember music even if it was only in my head…I couldn’t humm it for you it was so faint and on a strange musical scale. The closer we came to the calanques, the more concentrated the movement of the water. Miniature waves flipped and curled onto themselves, small folds of foam diamonds and translucent jade.
Bandol. I have not remembered being this calm. I can remember the taste of fennel and parsley. The olive oil mirrored everything. The land kept trying to tell me something, but I was young. But I think I can hear it now.
These pictures (besides the 2 of rosé) were taken at the end of May 2005, where parts of my family reunited (some met for the first time) and scattered my great aunt’s ashes into the sea.