Story and photos by Pete Shaw
October 2, 2025
Dear Dad,
Marc has solved the issue. The other night, having dinner with him and his partner, Zahia, and their Friends, Edoard and Oliver, I jabbered on about how amazing I found Marseille, how it struck me as so different from Paris, or really anywhere. Since my prior letter, I have remained at an ebullient loss for definition.
I am clearly not the first person, including among France’s denizens, who has recognized Marseille’s singularity, or at least its distinct character. And while in some pockets of the world the reflexive property in the service of description is frowned upon, Marc spoke as if for many when he replied to my enthusiastic rave, “Marseille is Marseille.”
We arrived in Tourettes-sur-Loup on Monday afternoon. We rented a car in Cannes and an hour later (most of the time spent navigating traffic in Cannes) we were in this small perched village about ten miles inland. In 2016 Jessica and I had rented a place in Montmartre, Paris from Zahia and Marc. It was a Lovely trip, and we finished it off having dinner with them at a nearby Thai restaurant. Jessica and I don’t recall the food being anything special, but the companionship and conversation was perfect. When we parted ways in the street outside the restaurant–Marc putting his hand over his heart, a gesture I have since occasionally used in homage to him and Zahia–I felt sad that we would likely never see them again.
Well, here we are, just a 20 year old me’s stone’s throw from them. More precisely on this early morning, “here” is in an old olive oil mill lying in the Cassan Valley below the town. Zahia and Marc have converted the mill into an art gallery and living quarters. It is a kind of community cultural center. When the weather is nice, they show films on an outdoor screen.
The walk down here along Rue des Moulins is pleasant. The walk up is somewhat strenuous, but also pleasant. The views of the town, and the valley reaching out to the Mediterranean are Wondrous. Marc is a man of many talents including landscape design. The plants may be a bit off their peak this time of year, but they are nonetheless beautiful. Prior to Zahia and Marc, a sculptor had a studio here, and some of his work remains among Marc and Zahia’s.
The past two days have found Jessica, Howard, and me driving around, stopping here and there. In particular, we visited two other perched villages, Mougins, and the significantly larger Saint-Paul-de-Vence. The former is not quite a sleepy place, but it doesn’t seem to go to extraordinary lengths to attract tourists. And while a lot of these villages, so reminiscent of Tuscany’s hill towns, can start feeling similar, I don’t think I could ever grow tired of walking their winding streets.
Saint-Paul-de-Vence is probably most famous for having been home to Marc Chagall for the last 19 years of his life. Or at least that’s how I knew of the place, having written a book report on him in fourth grade. Chagall is also buried there. More recently I found out James Baldwin had lived in Saint-Paul-de-Vence for some time, and he also passed there. Some years ago, his house was razed. It seemed Important to bear some kind of witness at that spot, to remember the man and his remarkable mind.
Tourettes-sur-Loup is a small, quiet place. Last night, after returning from Saint-Paul-de-Vence, Jessica and I walked through the medieval town, along its narrow back streets. It was raining, and we virtually had the place to ourselves. It was beautiful.
Walking back down into the valley, we passed by a house where we’d talked with the guys living there the night before. They are artists, and they were friendly sorts. One of them showed us a string instrument that I’d never seen before. He played it well. Last night we saw them again, and the guy who had played for us showed us a sculpture he had made. It was amazing, and we talked about art and the pleasure of making it, of having an idea and seeing it through.
Then it was time for dinner. Zahia had invited us over. I suppose we could have demurred, choosing to get a meal elsewhere. But why? Aside from it being poor form, it would also be Stupid.
The meal with Zahia, Marc, Edoard, and Oliver on Monday night had been fantastic. I assume my food was good. I think I had trout. I ate some bread. I don’t remember much of it to tell the truth. But I remember thoroughly enjoying myself. Oliver brought some wine his father had made. I do not know much about wine, and I barely drink alcohol. But I do know that I enjoy wine when sharing it with Good people. As we were readying to leave the table, I announced that this had been one of the great nights of my life. Zahia was surprised. But I was sincere. I am as I have long been: someone who takes great pleasure in getting together with people and enjoying their company. And I recognize these moments for the always rare and precious treasures they are. And it even got better as we got to talk some more with Edoard and Oliver in the parking lot before we parted.
So, yes, Zahia’s Kind invite was accepted swiftly and emphatically. The food was great. Zahia made pasta topped with her own sauce. The four food groups were represented with cheese, bread, wine, and radishes. Howie even relinquished his tight grip on some of the 5 trillion metric tons of nougat he had picked up in Saint-Paul-de-Vence in some crazed effort to corner the market.
But of course, better than the food was the time spent so enjoyably with Good people. It was another life highlight, the finest of vintages. I will always hold close the memory of talking about something and then asking Marc what the French word for obscene was. He told me, looking slightly confused: Obscène. I let out a sharp bark of a laugh, aware of how absurd the question must have seemed, perhaps une obscénité unto itself. Marc laughed too. So did Zahia, Jessica, and Howie. The night was Perfect, again.
It’s still dark here in the valley, but the morning light is just peering in on the town. When Jessica gets up and we finish packing, we will once more sit around Zahia and Marc’s table. This time for coffee and a light bite. We head to Aix-en-Provence later where we’ll spend the night before dropping off the car and taking the train to Paris. Once there, we’ll sadly part ways with Howie. He will grace Paris with his presence for two nights before heading Home. Meanwhile, Jessica and I will hop another train to Luxembourg City where we will stay with Friends Marc and Marta.
When organizing this trip, we originally planned to go from Marseille to Lyon, north instead of east. Then I remembered Zahia and Marc had moved somewhere in southern France, and when Zahia said they’d probably be around, our plans changed. How often do you get a chance like this, to see Good people that you’d never thought you’d see again? You give me that option, no matter how thin the chance of seeing it through, and I will pursue it with all my will.
You and mom named me well.
Love,
Peter
