travels

Arles and The Bridge

We left Avignon in the morning and headed to Arles, a launching point for the actual destination which was the Norman Foster bridge over the Millau Gorge. I’d wanted to see Arles as it was the home of a cooking school that ran the odd yoga retreat that I’d considered attending. In the end, I opted for a week in Paris instead and I’m glad. I don’t think I could spend my last week concentrating on yoga, something I could do in Boston, when I know I’m going to want to savor every last moment and site. We arrived at the Arlatan, a converted chateau that once belonged to Richelme or somebody of equal import. Breaking my streak of living amongst the moderns, which did have to come to an end this being one of the places where history comes from and all, we settled into our new home. Of course I’d tried to get a reservation at the Hotel Particular first, which was the local Zen haven of dark woods, light walls and straight lines. No luck there, sadly, as the Arlatan was not my cup of tea, nice as it was. It did have Internet access though, as did the hotel in Avignon. I’m so thankful for access and I don’t care what any of you say. It’s not about staying connected, though that’s a part of it, it’s about getting stuff done. I need to research and book hotels, I need to map out my drive from here to there, I need pay bills and post to my blog. I must say, I still thrill at getting the odd email so I can’t claim that the umbilical cord is completely severed but my use of the Internet has moved far beyond the so called connected lifestyle and nears the quality of a utility. I can last without access about as long as I can last without taking a shower. You wouldn’t want to be around me after the sell on date expires in either case.

Arlesis a very old town (does this sound as repetitive to you as it does to me?). The hotel has a window onto a site under the building that contains walls built by Constantine. Well, I’m sure Constantine hired someone to build the walls but you know what I mean. And he probably didn’t hire them so much as conscript them. Arles also has an arena dating back to the first couple centuries AD, still in use, that served as a place where one could go watch men fight lions (unsuccessfully, I’m sure) and other blood sports ordained by those in power. They no longer host quite that but it is still home to regular bull fights. My understanding is that Arles bullfighting is different from that in Nimes or Spain. Here, the matador has little hooks on his fingers and his job is to pluck ribbons from the bulls’ horns. Seems a bit nicer for the bulls and perhaps more visually appealing but I wonder if it satisfies whatever itch bull fighting scratches. Arles was also home to Van Gogh (who really seemed to get around) and it is here that he painted Starry Night (the place he set up his canvas is marked on the map) and where he famously cut off his ear (in a square about 100 meters from my hotel). Of all the towns I’d been in, Arles is my least favorite. Its charm was somehow beaten down and its attractions felt a little desperate. Maybe it was my mood or maybe it was real but while the rest of Provence felt golden, Arles seemed a dull brown. But for us, it wasn’t as much about seeing Arles as seeing the bridge, something Colin and I had discussed many months before. It was certainly on my agenda of things I wanted to do – in fact, driving the Corniche from Nice to Monaco and going over the Millau Viaduct was about all I had for plans when I arrived in France.

According to the map, we had a good couple of hours drive ahead of us and the map didn’t even account for Montpelier which was under construction and did not have a ring road around it. Going to we were ok, it was slow but manageable. Coming back, we sat in traffic for a good hour or so, my iTrip was not cooperating and the radio was playing crap. Ah well, not all dreams can be good ones. We were returning from a grand adventure though, so all was well.

The drive there was uneventful as we watched the landscape change from the Mediterranean motif of Provence to the more rugged tableau of Languedoc-Roussillon. Lunch time had passed so we stopped at a truck stop for a bite and some gas. You know the place – gas, cafeteria-style restaurant, snacks, odd gifty things, vending machines and toilets. The difference here, is that they sell bottles of wine any local wine store would be happy to carry which the cashier deftly opens when you pay, and the food at the snack area includes the local fois gras and Roquefort. And instead of getting brown coffee from a large urn, you get a little token which you insert into the espresso maker when you’re ready. God I love France.

We gassed up our bodies and the car and set back out onto the A75 towards Millau. It took about 20 minutes when we saw a sign that told us that stopping was forbidden, rounding the curve, you see why they posted it. The bridge was there in all its glory and yes, your first instinct is to stop dead and take many pictures. The traffic was light and everyone seemed to slow down to better enjoy the view. It was love at first sight for me, the photos only tell part of the story. It was a majestic structure made better by its complete visual integration with the landscape. Though we were traveling at a height just above the Eiffel Tower and just under the Empire State building, there was no sense of height. Though the white guy wires (similar to the Zakim and ANZ bridges) were thoroughly streamlined, they were at home in the rugged landscape. I’m sure the Pont du Gard was a marvel of engineering in its time, so is the Millau Viaduct. I’d waffled earlier about going, it was a long drive, it’s only a bridge – but I’m so glad I did it. It left me with that feeling, the feeling that you’ve experienced something worthwhile and it was no longer a question of time and energy but of memory of yet another experience that made me better for being there. I know, I know, it’s only a bridge but you go over it and then we’ll talk.

We chose the old route home, to see what folks had to do before the bridge and to attempt to grab a couple of distance shots. The next day took us our separate ways, Colin to Aix and me to La Maison Rouge wandering about LaCoste, Rousillon and other picturesque Luberon villes. More to come on Michel Bras and Aix. I’m now in Marseilles, sitting on my terrace overlooking the Vieux Port. The church bells are ringing and its starting to cloud over. There’s a seagull sitting happily on a chimney on the roof next door.

Time out of mind

Time to take a little break from our chronological wanderings and interject some commentary, my apologies to Nick Hornby (it’s not like he was the first to think of it).

Le Musique:

First off, music. Though my circles have been relatively small, I’ve traveled to distinctly different areas of the country and each lends itself well to a particular style of music. Here are my recommendations for soundtracks if you happen to find yourself traveling these parts:

1. School in Moustiers, Haute Provence: I started here and this is the most general no doubt, I just put the ol’ iPod on random all and had at it. I mostly listened while I was studying and the variety served me well.

2. Le Cote d’Azur: definitely down tempo, neo-lounge, groove-oriented anything. Thievery, Groove Armada, Stevie and some song by (I think) Serge Gainsborough’s son that I haven’t heard since the first time I heard it on the radio and I would very much like to. 

3. Le Luberon: new pop and old jams; cruising music. Phish and the Dead sounded great as I meandered down countless kilometers of back roads, equally great was the light, fresh pop of the last few years – The Sea and Cake, the Decemberists, the Shins, and a big shout out to Belle and Sebastian. Warm, happy music with no beginning and no end, much like the days here.

4. Le Gorge du Tarn: bluegrass, definitely bluegrass. While my chronology has taken me there, I’ve not yet committed it to page, so you are not aware of the radical departure from Provence the Gorge represented. It is hill country and only hill music will do.

5. Aubrac: this wild, wooly country also called for country. Alt-country, no depression, though I’m sure Patsy would have fit right in as would Johnny. None of that uproarious are we ready to play football crap, only pure, plaintive tones of people who understand the pain and beauty of living off the land.

6. The road: I’ve spent a few hours driving the highways as opposed to the byways and while the constant companion of random all is the key, the odd rock song sure did hit the spot. Notable was when Queensof the Stone Age came on while I was heading north to pick Penny up pre-Michel Bras. Parfait.

7. And finally everywhere: Radiohead. Those who know me know my obsession wanes; perhaps it was travels with Seemo, perhaps it’s just that it sounds so damn good but boy howdy. I made a pilgrimage to Vaison la Romain yesterday, where one of the better quality live shows was recorded and threw it on right before my arrival. There have been many other occasions where Karma Police, Knives Out, Airbag, Lucky have all scratched that itch. Kudos to Thom et. al.  I must also give props to my troubadour buddies who came off the bench at opportune times and made it all ok: Tom, Nick, Nick, and Leonard. And of course George for keeping the funk alive, especially apropos for walking around Aix with headphones. Ok, awards show has run into the 11 o’clock news, the music is playing and I’m done.

Les Repas

Meals that knocked my socks off:

1. Michel Bras

2. Le Bastide

3. Domain des Andeols

4. Les Bories

5. Kei’s Passion

6. Vieux Mur

7. Mitch

Note to you Michelin junkies – Le Chanticleir is not on this list, though I supped there.

Peak moments:

1. Faure’s Requiem in Avignon’s Notre Dame cathedral
2. Crossing Norman Foster’s Millau Viaduct

3. The thunderstorm in Monte Carlo

4. The first time I walked into Maison Rouge

5. The truffle man

6. La lune rising late at night, low, orange and very, very large over the Mediterranean in Antibes

7. Driving with the top down around unbelievably beautiful back roads, sun beating down, music playing.

Things that surprised me:

1. Everyone, to a person, is very, very nice, extremely helpful and had nothing but praise and aide for my sometimes futile attempts to speak the language.

2. How dratted difficult it is to understand what the heck people are saying. Most of the time, I get the general sense but it’s not the same as being able to parrot the words back. I don’t know exactly what they said, only what they meant. The experience has convinced me that most of communication is non-verbal though sometimes I’d answer questions and in the middle of my answer, wonder if I was answering what was asked or something else entirely. I got the feeling my sincere effort were the only thing that mattered and I didn’t mind being an idiot nearly as much as I thought I would.

3. How important wine is but how cavalierly it is treated. In the States, we’re obsessed with pairing wine and food; here, they drink whatever they want. Red with fish, white with meat and people are more familiar with the local appellations. One sommelier I spoke to said he didn’t like pairing for each course because he felt it overwhelmed the food, better the wine was a companion and not a co-star. He also explained that other countires put the importance on the grape, in France, it is on the region. Very few wines are made from a single grape apparently, which makes for more complex but much more interesting (IMHO) wines. He said he’s been accredited for ten years and still hasn’t even scratched the surface of the wineries and the vintages in the small region he covers.

4. How darn much good food there is. Even the most humble of establishments take their food very seriously which makes for many fine meals. Ok, not a surprise but I’m grateful that this was as I expected.

5. The French sacrifice efficiency for quality and use people where we might use machines. I discussed this with a Canadian one evening who believed you could have both but I disagree. As with almost everything else in life, I believe you can’t find perfect balance, though you strive for it, you only choose on which side you want to err. Here, waiting for service doesn’t seem to engender the same angst it does in the States and there is a far greater number of artisans and privately operated businesses. Small is good; Texans must hate it. Perhaps the greatest surprise was how easily I adapted and how right it seems.

The Requiem

On Sunday in Avignon, after my wander with Colin, I headed over to the Notre Dame cathedral, which is next to the palace of the Popes, the centerpiece of the old town. In my morning read of the paper (my translation duties not for naught here) I saw that the regional orchestra was presenting pieces by three French composers, the last being a full version of Faure’s Requiem, whose first movement is perhaps the most beautiful piece of music ever written. Colin opted to head back to the hotel and chill, so I bought my ticket and entered the cathedral. It was small but grand and typical of the classical cathedrals (note to reader: my knowledge of the architecture of classical cathedrals is limited to the six or seven I’ve visited in my life, this one looked like the rest of them, so for me, it was typical. Use this information at your own discretion). There were four pews across, each seating three people, culminating at the altar, where the orchestra was set up. Beyond the altar was the apse whose roof rose another 20 feet above the 50 (?) foot roof of the main area. Off to the side were a number of small enclaves celebrating one saint or another, I imagine, with images and candles and all that I associate with traditional Catholicism. There was a balcony that ran around the perimeter, acting as a roof for the enclaves and as a tableau for amazingly intricate stone work. I have not doubt that were I to know them, I could use at least 20 architectural terms to describe the interior but suffice it to say it was magnificent. The color scheme was stone grey (the entire building being made of grey stone) with red accents in the velvet that surrounded the pipes of the large organ located on the left balcony overlooking the altar, a red drape over the seat of priest (or maybe cardinal?) also to the left of the altar and in the small stained glass window at the very apex of the apse.

(Time-based interjection: it’s been difficult to keep up with all that has happened. I’m two weeks beyond Avignon, now in Aix. I put my sister Penny on a train this morning after a wonderful few days in Lagouile and Aix and I’m now sitting in a café in the Place des Augustus, one of the smaller squares of the old town, sipping Diet Coke (some habits die hard) and waiting for the rinse cycle to finish so I can put my laundry in the dryer. I have the next few days to myself and assuming I don’t suffer from severe writer’s block, will get caught up. My apologies for the very long posts this will result in as well as the slightly disjointed time line. Ah well, only genre fiction follows a straight time line.)

Alors, back to the cathedral. When I dressed in the morning, I knew I was probably going to end up at the concert but it was so sunny I just couldn’t bring myself to put a sweater in my bag. I was wearing a tank top, skirt and sandals, my southern uniform while the people around me were dressed in suits, scarves and coats, which they were layering on as time went by. The meaning of the phrase “stone cold” was becoming very clear to me as I became more and more uncomfortable. It is a testament to the music that for much of the time, I didn’t even think about it. I was freezing, no doubt, but whilst the music played, I was transported to a place where mortal concerns didn’t seem to have an impact. The concert consisted of three parts, representing the three composers: the first was solo soprano accompanied by the massive pipe organ, the second a multi-movement piece for the large choir, the third the Requiem. When the multiple layers of voices and harmonies from the choir rose up to the ceiling and then presumably to heaven, one could understand the meaning of “lifting their voices to God.”  The Requiem was the grand piece with choir, orchestra, and solo soprano and baritone. A children’s choir joined on two movements offering frail voices of purity and innocence. I had no doubt that the beauty of the church and of one’s faith was strengthened and solidified when parishioners were able to sit in such magnificence. At the end of the piece, the crowd erupted into applause and would not let the musicians leave. To appease our desires, they prepared an encore. The children, dressed all in white, came down the aisle to stand in front of the orchestra and choir, all dressed in black. Someone opened the door in the back of the church and sunlight streamed into the formally dusky setting. As the encore began, the church bells at the palace also began their seven o’clock song. At times it created dissonance, making a traditionally romantic piece sound more like something from Zorn or Coleman; at other points, it blended beautifully and created another layer of harmony to augment the already rich sound. The bells ended before the piece and the musicians were able to finish with the sound they intended and the crowd left satisfied and feeling slightly larger and more important than when we arrived. It was two hours I will never forget.

Avignon

Three for three. With the exception of the worn charm of my room in Nice and the monastic cell in St. Tropez, I’ve had the great good fortune of staying in pantheons of modern design. My hotel in Avignon(taking 45 minutes to find this time as Avignon is larger, more complex, and a nightmare for cars) was perfect. The hotel began its life as a Jesuit school in 1589, acted as a hospital during the French Revolution and added an ultra-modern wing, architected by Jean Nouvel, in 1991. There is no incongruity and the experience of going from the old to the new is seamless and nearly preordained. I was to retrieve my friend Colin from the train station that evening at 9, so I had the day to explore. I wandered town, which was a bit larger than I’d thought and quite lovely. The entire old town is surrounded by a 20 odd foot tall wall and though cars are allowed in, the streets are very narrow and pedestrians rule. The town housed the seat of the Catholic Church in what? the 16^th century and the Palace of the Popes is a centerpiece tourist attraction. Much of the central artery running through the town is a pedestrian walkway populated by cafes and a steady flow of tourists. It’s a town where you could almost get lost if you wandered enough, but not quite. I wandered, took photos, wrote, and stopped back at the pad for a quick nap before heading to the TGV station.

The next day Colin and I wandered together, covering much of the same ground I’d covered the day before, but adding the gardens beyond the palace whose perch offers a beautiful vantage point from which to view the bridge of Avignon. My time with Colin was to be a time of bridges. We saw three famous ones, and it became the time bridging the beginning of my trip where time stretched endless before me, and the end, where I began to be aware that eventually I had to stop living this dream and return to life as I knew it. 

The next day we set off to visit some vineyards and successfully tasted and purchased some lovely wines. Even with all my time in California, I had never been on a vineyard tour. At this point, my experience with visiting vineyards amounted to a viewing of _Sideways_ (which my restaurant friends assure me created a laughably ignorant hoard of newly minted wine snobs who are dying to tell you about how thin skinned the pinot noir grape is). I still don’t have the hang of it but it was all very non-commercial and we were able to taste anything we wanted. I managed to conduct all exchanges in French, purchased a couple of bottles at each and have no idea how the heck I’ll get anything back in my already overstuffed suitcases.

After the vineyards, I broke my one thing a day rule because we were very close to the Pont du Gard, the Roman aqueduct whose image graces the cover of at least 30% of all Western History textbooks in the world. It was a lovely ramble out and around it and it was that thing you’ve seen so many times reproduced, right there in stone. Knowing that in two days I would see what one of the greater feats of modern bridge building, I appreciated the contrast. After much picture taking and a fond call to our friend Tim, we made our way back to Avignon for a final dinner in our favorite café (with the greatest server of all time, Iman) and a planned departure for Arles .

St Remy

I keep doing this and I don’t mean to but I leave a gap of a day between reservations so I’m left to figure out what to do for a night. Do I ask the next stop to take me earlier? Do I try to stay an extra day? Or do as I did on my way to Avignon and take the opportunity to stop in a town along the way? I chose St-Remy for its proximity to Avignon, its description in the guide book and the fact it had a hotel constructed in the modernist tradition. I find I’m much happier staying in places comprised of clean lines and little detail. This particular hotel was also a school of photography, which fed my love for pretty pictures. I managed to get a room the day of and made my getaway from Nice. For the first time, the day broke hot and sunny. There had been warm sunny days mixed with ones colder and greyer but this was the first day that you know summer is almost here. I put my luggage in the back seat so I could put the top down on the car and hit the A8, a highway that had become my home in my travels up and down the coast. For the first hour or so I listened to French radio, flipping the stations to catch a good song or try to understand the DJs. Simon and Garfunkel came on as I whipped down the highway, asking where are you now, Joe DiMaggio? And I knew the answer – he is doing commercials for Mr. Coffee. Actually he’s dead but that was the answer on my sister Penny’s road trip once upon a time, a story I always think of when I hear the song. After a time, I decided to try the old iPod/iTrip combination and voila, it worked a charm. I listened to many a good song as I exited the A8 for the A7 and headed north. The landscape was beautiful, the sun shone down on my head and body (I now have the passion of a convert on the convertible front). The drive took about two hours, certainly no issue for the US driver that I am and not even for my newly adopted slower lifestyle. I exited the A7 onto one of D roads, local two ways with a multitude of roundabouts (rond-points) that wend their way through small French towns. I found St.-Remy right where it was supposed to be and spent the usual half hour doing laps around the town trying to avoid pedestrians, read street signs and figure out where the heck I was going. Boston driving has served me well here as the street configurations are very similar – streets with one name in one place another in another and no indication that you’ve changed; one ways that twist and turn and other drivers constantly entering and exiting. Since I’m in no hurry, being lost is just part of the experience. I finally found the hotel located conveniently in the center of town and it was yet another architectural and design masterpiece. The French seemed to have reconciled traditional and modern architecture in a way the United States has not been able to do. In the US, we either regulate construction in a way that there is complete consistency and adherence with tradition or allow a complete free for all with people building gothic monstrosities abutting neo-Bauhaus eyesores in a way that upsets one’s aesthetic sensibility and does nothing for either architectural movement.

St-Remy is yet, yet, yet another Romanesque town (though this one with Greek forebears) with warm ochre brick that glows golden in the late afternoon light. It has gone from being a center for olive oil production to a gastronomic destination. It is the birthplace of Nostradamus and van Gogh lived here for two years painting some of his best known works. My room was de riguer for a modernist, minimal, warm and perfectly balanced. I envisioned myself moving in for the long haul but had only a day and a night. I wandered around town, peeking in art galleries and noting that there was a small stone trench in the middle of the walkway that seemed to go through the entire town. My friend Rob called and we traded status and love whilst I wandered. After my walkabout, I tried to capture some of the beauty of my home for the day on disk, taking advantage of the light of magic hour. I succeeded in only a small way and went in to dress for dinner. I knew full well that St-Remy was host to a multitude of fine dining establishments but my hotel had a terrace to die for and served sushi and sake. The ease of eating a few meters from my room, enjoying an unbelievable view of the gardens and the hills beyond and washing away the taste of the truly bad sake was too much for me and I succumbed. The sake was as good as I’ve ever had as was the sushi. In a nod to the region and my fondness for it, I ordered the fois gras maki. If you ever have a chance to try this, do. Don’t question it, just order it. The seaweed and sushi rice are rolled around just exactly the right amount of the smooth, rich, soft, flavorful little piece of liver and acts as the perfect foil to balance the pure fat that is fois gras. For those of you who are thinking about telling my little converted vegetarian self about the evils of the fattened geese, I don’t want to hear it. It’s just too good to give up so I’d rather remain ignorant, or at least in denial. I will ask forgiveness later.

The evening passed as most do, with flirtatious waiters and me playing my role as watcher (who is watching the watchmen?). Traveling alone, I’ve become very aware of how much you miss when you’re with other people. Granted, you gain a lot, camaraderie, expression and connection but there are literally worlds unfolding around you as you commune. Being alone, I see and hear everything. Every table holds its own small drama, I surrender myself to the environment that someone conceived of and created or that came together by default. It seems a crime to me now to be any less aware than I am when I’m alone. I talk to others as I’m completely approachable, my thoughts wander to places far beyond where they might if voiced.

The next morning awoke to yet another early summer morn and I packed up the car and headed 20 kilometers north to Avignon.

    

domaine des andeols

After Avignon and Arles (posts to come there), I decided I needed a vacation from my vacation so last night I looked for a place I could stay for a few nights and do nothing but study, do yoga, and catch up on my writing. I couldn’t find anyplace with availability when I remembered an article I’d seen in _Departures_ , American Express’s magazine. It detailed a hotel in

Provence

that was the antithesis of the country cottage or Belle Époque architecture and design one finds in the south of

France

. Instead, it is a temple to modern design and each of the suites contain original works from the owners’ collection. It was in the Luberon, the area of

Provence

I wanted to see next and while it was a little more expensive than I was looking for, it was ideal. It was my idea of heaven. I booked online and arrived here today. Unfortunately, they hadn’t received my reservation and the room I had reserved was not available. They were incredibly gracious as they tried to accommodate me and ended up giving me a suite for the same price. It is huge, fabulous, and a living modern art museum. I’ve photographed everything and have details of each designer and artist in the description. All the pieces are original. The mirror in my room is Phillippe Starck, the dining room table is Norman Foster, the couch is Ron Arad. The dining room chairs and the sideboard are Pucci de Rossi. The ceilings are fifteen feet high; there are two bedrooms, each with a large soaking tub in the room. The toiletries are Kiehl’s. The terrace overlooks the Luberon valley and is almost completely private. There is a masseuse and the very nice Monsieur is going to enquire if the English teacher in the village would be willing to tutor me in French. I’m hoping that we can sit at my (Norman Foster!) dining room table, sip tea, and accelerate my French yet another couple of kilometers per hour. I’m hoping that I can spend an hour or two in the morning doing yoga on the terrace overlooking the vineyards and Rousoullin.  I’m hoping that I can get caught up on all my writing. There is so much to commit to these pages. Hearing Faure’s Requiem in the Notre Dame chapel adjacent to the Palais de Popes in Avignon; wandering from vineyard to vineyard sampling the Cotes de Rhones, seeing the Pont du Gard; seeing Norman Foster’s new bridge over the Millau Gorge. How people don’t answer me in English any longer when I ask them a question; the utter and pure beauty of this part of the world. It’s also the back side of my time here and I’m painfully aware of it. Of course, I have over three weeks left, which can be a lifetime and the last week is in

Paris

where I will abandon my slow pace and see and do everything I possibly can in the time I’m there. As for right now, I’m going to open a lovely bottle of Chardonnay I picked up for almost exactly no money in Teval, pour my self a glass, run myself a bath and remove the days travel from my body and dress for dinner. I guess the dining room is something, I’m sure it will be. And one more thing, there are herbs on my terrace that smell so wonderful, so much like warmth and contentment that they alone would make this place heaven.

Leaving Nice - Antibes - Menton

I spent a week in Nice and have the lay of the land, at least the dozens of blocks surrounding my hotel and the roads along the beach heading east and west. I like Nice, it‘s a resort town no doubt but it’s also a place where real people live real lives. I can’t imagine how they live them during the summer when everything I’ve read, everything I’ve heard, everything I saw pointed to the fact that the entire place is one teeming mass of humanity and their vehicles moving along an inch at a time in scorching temperatures. It was bad enough in April and apparently, that was nothing. It would drive me crazy.

Ok, confession time. I didn’t have a singular cultural experience in Nice. I didn’t go to any museums, I didn’t tour any of the sites, I didn’t learn any more of the history than I already knew from my guide books. There were four museums there that held interest for me – the contemporary, the Matisse, the Chagall, and the Asian Art. I’d heard the contemporary was ok, not nearly the quality of Maigt. I used that as an excuse for not going but the bottom line is that I’ve discovered I don’t like to see the sites. I just don’t. I like to walk endlessly around neighborhoods and avenues, I like to sit in cafes and watch people and write, I like to study my French for hours in the morning over coffee. I like to drive with the top down along the beach. But I don’t like visit buildings with stuff in them, I don’t like to shop, and I don’t like to walk around places where something happened but the only thing happening now is that people are walking around hearing about it.

My regular schedule now has me arising in the morning and hightailing it to wherever I have to go for café; sometimes in my room, sometimes in the hotel dining room. I’d hoped to do yoga first but I’ve found that it’s just too difficult to do anything before coffee. Ok, so I get my coffee and I grab the paper and my dictionary and I choose an article to read. I browse through the entire paper and then read one piece or maybe only a part because at the speed I read in French, it would take me an entire week to get through the paper. It’s fun to read the local papers. They are much like any other local rag: beauty pageants, police blotters, local and national politics, sport. Unfortunately, the first article I tackled was a review of the new Milan Kundera book which was tough going but I did get through it. Book reviews are dense things in one’s native language so it wasn’t perhaps the best place to start but I was really curious about the book. Other articles about a photograph at auction going for ten times the expected price, an editorial on the pending referendum for the European constitution and the race to see who would be crowned the Queen of Arles were easier. I also spend the morning studying a variety of things, verb tenses, vocabulary -whatever I feel is lacking at the moment. On good days I do yoga after study and then prepare myself for whatever the afternoon holds. So far my rule that I do only one thing per day has worked out well. I’ve learned the art of walking slowly and really seeing what surrounds me, I’m in no hurry so obstacles cause me no concern at all, I can sit in a café and take two hours to eat a small lunch. I can sit without listening to music, reading, or watching TV. This may not seem monumental for some but for me, it is. I’ve always had to fill my head with elsewhere it seems; now I can be, just be. It’s a good feeling. I have to say though, my favorite thing is to choose a local café with the right ambiance and write. I’ve written more than what I’ve posted here, just as I’ve taken many more pictures than I’ve shared (taking pictures is another thing I’ve found I love) and I battle with myself sometimes about whether it’s a good thing to sit and document my thoughts and experiences rather than going out and having more of them. Actually, I don’t battle that hard. I like this writing thing and I sure like sitting in cafes, so I do.

I’m going to try to get down the basics of my time in Nice here, so I have it. Oh yes, I promised to tell you about being locked in a room with the pregnant, crying dachshund, so I’ll start there. After arriving in Nice I did my usual and tracked down an Internet café, so I could grab email, pay bills, and post. I found a place with access that was made up of two storefronts. When the WiFi didn’t work in the one place, Madam took me over to the other and set me up with a hard connection. After doing so, she rambled on rapidly in French that she was going over to the other place, that she could hear and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t catch. She left, locking the door behind her and me inside with the dachshund who immediately began whimpering. She was great with tiny dachshunds and I had no idea if she needed to go to the bathroom, whether she missed her mistress or whether she was preparing to give birth. I tried to let her out, finding of course, that the door was locked. I tried to finish what I was doing which was proofing a long email but her cries became more persistent. It was obvious she was feeling a great deal of discomfort around whatever it was that was bothering her. I start banging on the door to get the attention of Madam next door. Nothing. I banged on the adjacent wall. Nothing. It was very hot in the room and the dog, who was very dear and looked at me with large trusting eyes, and I were becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. After some time, I caught the attention of a passer by and motioned for her to tell the people next door that I needed them. The tiny, fifty something, blonde French Madam entered in a flurry of excuses. She could hear me, I should have done something else (I couldn’t quite figure out what it was she was saying I should have done.) I went on a mini French/English tirade about the dog about pounding and yelling and shouting to no avail. I stormed out as she asked innocently if perhaps I was finished. I didn’t send the email as my entire time was spent trying to figure out how to get me and the dog out of our predicament and I didn’t bother wondering if I was expected to pay for the privilege, I just left. I was worked up in a way I hadn’t been for some time so I spent the time walking it off. I discovered that a great deal of space in my neighborhood was a pedestrian mall with a plethora of cafes and restaurants. I slowed my pace and began taking pictures and adjusting to my previous state of contentment.

As I started to cool down, the weather changed and it began raining, hard and then harder. I headed for Le Prado, a café I’d seen before, one that didn’t look nearly as touristy as some of the others. I made it under the cover without getting too wet and ordered a panache, a lovely concoction of beer and lemonade (yes, I know it’ a shandy but they’re different here). I sipped my drink and watched as others made it through the rain in whichever way they do that particular thing. The best thing I saw and one for which I’ll always regret not having my camera ready was a man and a women, each pushing a stroller with a toddler in it, each with a tiny umbrella covering them. The café was half full and after a time, the group next to me engaged me in conversation. They were Nicoise and curious about where I was from and what I was doing in Nice. One young man was particularly attentive and while I had no interest in meeting men, I was interested in speaking French. He was willing to put up with my broken French and helped me find the right words. He was also interested in practicing his English so it was mutually agreeable situation. He was a painter and was born and raised in Nice. He loved the idea of the United States and made it very clear that he couldn’t care less about the current state of world affairs – that was politics and best left to the politicians. He told me he would love to show me around his town and we agreed to meet the next day.

As it was one of the first truly beautiful days, I wanted to take the convertible out for a spin so we headed to Antibes. Antibes is yet another charming, old Roman coastal town and we spent the afternoon wandering the streets and the port, taking in the numerous multi-million dollar yachts. Once again, I passed up wandering around the Picasso museum, though I did stop to view the building, an old chateau. We had a fabulous meal at the Vieux Mur (everything is a Vieux something here) and drove back home along the water.

I agreed to meet him again the next day for a trip to Menton, a coastal town past Monaco, bordering Italy. While I didn’t get to live my dream driving the grand corniche opting instead for the safer lower corniche along the water, the trip was extremely beautiful. As as in Antibes, there were snow covered mountains in the distance and steep hills towering over the very, very blue water. Both days were spent wandering aimlessly and speaking French. It was most enjoyable and it amazed me how much my French improved, having to speak it all day. It was all very nice and while I think Sami was interested in finding an American bride, I was grateful for the chance to improve so much.

The last couple days I spent wandering around old Nice, seeing a movie, doing laundry and eating leisurely meals. I plan to attend as many movies as is feasible as watching the movie in English and reading the French subtitles (since my reading ability vastly outstrips my listening ability) is a great learning experience and I get to catch up on the latest cinema to boot. I’ll probably try to take in a couple French films as well, though I get a lot of it on the TV. I noticed today that I reached a new plateau as I can follow conversations much more easily.

I’m in Avignon now, after a night in St Remy de Provence. I’m waiting for my friend Colin who arrives from Paris by train. More later with loads of photos. Love to all.

Arriving Nice

How many words are there for charming? Everywhere here in the South of France is so darn charming I don’t know what else to call it. The French language seems even more constrained for words that connote goodness, near as I can tell – tres jolie, tres agréable, tres chameaux. Nice is lovely, quaint, alive, bustling but in a relaxed way. The people are well turned out, not dressed up just well put together. Mostly jeans and shirts, jackets, and casual wear but with attention paid to detail. The women really do wear scarves in a multitude of ways and the men seem to have equal clothes savvy, more than once I’ve played gay or eurotrash. In general, you don’t see people wearing track suits or beach clothes anywhere except the track or the beach.

I went to a sushi restaurant this evening (written Saturday, April 23). I was looking for something lighter and I had a hankering for sake. I really, really like sake. And this sake was truly bad. It tasted how I imagine perfume would taste if one were a raging alcoholic on a bender with nothing else to consume. They serve it warm by default, I asked for it cold as that’s how I’ve always drank it. Perhaps served warm, one can’t tell how awful it is. I noticed they didn’t put it on my bill, so they must have some inkling. The sushi was ok but expensive, smaller than what we get in the US, and of exceedingly average quality. Ten pieces of sake, maguro, unagi, and tomago with a small bottle of water was 31 euro. Back to French food, methinks. It was nice to have raw fish and wasabi though.

[apologies to quelqu’un who originally got these words in a letter, at least I’m cribbing my own work]

I’m now happily residing at the Hotel Windsor which is very modest but truly wonderful. The staff is extraordinarily friendly and helpful and ma chambre is large, if not luxurious. Its finest features are the two 12” windowed doors that open onto the petit terrace overlooking the gardens. It’s located about one block down and five blocks into the old town from where I was at the Negresco. It’s funny, the Negresco failed miserably at being a fine hotel, and it showed in almost everything they did (except the art collection which really is something) The Windsor has very chic, modern common rooms and the guest rooms are simple and just a tad worn. But it’s fine because the hotel knows exactly what it is and that shabbiness makes it more charming.

Leaving St. Paul

[One in a series of catch up notes. I’ve not been able to find connection anywhere that didn’t involve being locked in a room with a pregnant crying dachshund. More on that later]

I left St. Paul this morning (written Saturday, April 23. Happy birthday Mom) and it was bittersweet. A new crop of people arrived at the villa the day before and they were wonderful, but it felt like a good time to turn the page. As was my impression from the first day, the entire experience was perfect. It didn’t feel at all like I was traveling alone as the owners, Ann and John, as well as the other guests, Sarah, Jim and their daughter Lilly and Jim’s parents Jules and Dorothy took me under their wing and made me one of them. I loved hearing Jules’ and Dorothy’s stories of working and raising a family in New York – from childhood to the post-war years to the present; about Sarah and Jim’s extensive travels and love and experiences with great art; Lilly’s many pursuits – learning French, studying the violin, taking riding lessons and Anne and Jim’s pending plans for summer travel to Scotland and Malta. All were just as interested in me as I was in them and we passed wonderful hours over the week chatting. Sarah, Lilly, and I spent a grand morning on my terrace practicing yoga with Baron on the iPod. Yoga drishti is much easier when your gaze point is a sailboat far away atop the Mediterranean. Most dinners were spent at the Vieux Roulin where Madam also took me under her wing and by the third night I was a regular with my habit of taking my coffee on the terrace well understood. Madam would come out to make sure I wasn’t cold and to admire the moon and the quiet and beauty of the village. I know it is very different in July and August and I’m thankful that I experienced it before it was overrun by the hoards. One very memorable dinner was spent with Ann and Jim in their kitchen. I’d decided that I really didn’t want to go anywhere when the phone in my room rang and it was Ann asking if I’d like to join them for a simple dinner John had prepared. It was a chicken and turkey tart with a light crispy crust and was served with a Provencal rose, a wine I’d never thought I’d drink and now I rarely drink anything else with my meals. The conversation was light but meaningful turning equally from politics to work to travel. When traveling alone, eating a family meal with two people who you would enjoy no matter the circumstance is a gift.

Even the changing of the guard (as I think of the arrival of the new guests) was a treat; two more lovely sets of people with which to share stories and revelry. And I was happy to have their presence at my farewell gesture, where John taught me to open a bottle of champagne with a saber. When I say open, it doesn’t mean pulling the cork off, it means taking the entire top off. I have the glass bound cork to prove it. The history comes from the Napoleonic wars where the generals would celebrate a victory by using their sabers to open whatever champagne the pillaged or ported. It’s a unique feeling, one I had no idea existed and one I’m very glad I have in my cadre of experiences. If you’re wondering, the action doesn’t require strength, though I imagine it requires leverage even if it doesn’t feel like that either. It feels a bit like magic as the saber passes over the top of the bottle and the entire head goes flying into the swimming pool below.

During my time in St. Paul, I didn’t do much, though I accomplished what I wanted: finished a day of paperwork that was hanging over my head, seeing the collection at the Fondation, wandering around the old town, doing some laundry, getting my belongings reorganized, and napping at will. Those of you who can’t or won’t nap, I am sorry for you. It is a luxury accessible by anyone with a little extra time and the desire to step out for a moment. The copious amount of time I have here is beyond luxury for which I will be forever grateful. Thank you Macromedia and especially to whomever it was who thought it important enough that people of our ilk get the chance to step out for a moment and made it so.

St. Paul de Vence

I've posted new photos of St. Tropez and St. Paul where I am now.

I arrived in St. Paul de Vence Tuesday about 4 PM and I was grateful to be A: stationary and B: in such a beautiful place . For some reason (j'ai besouin de mon "navigator") I wasn't able to get on the A8 out of St. Tropez and ended up in what I call Dragon, which is actually Draguignan. I could have continued through Grasse to Vence but the hairpin curves were making me seasick, so I opted for the first exit to the A8 I could find, which I believe was the same as that we took from Moustiers on Friday night. The trip wasn't that long, either way, and when I arrived I found the hotel was owned by two Americans, who were perfectly content, if not relieved, to be speaking English.

The hotel is amazing and beautiful and I'm so glad to be here; so much so that I inquired about a fourth night which will be so. It is a modern structure with vaulted, airy great rooms, simple, clean lines with white walls, blue accents and marble and glass abounding. Pix are in the photo albums.

The town is another incredibly charming Romanesque ville with a history of artists painting here. The town is the size of a postage stamp and has 64 art galleries within its walls. I spent the day at the Fondation Maeght (really, do glance at the pix) and it was all that. I'd looked forward to seeing it and it did not disappoint. While I've wandered through the ville and the Fondation the last couple of days lunching at the Cafe de la Place (conceived, built and resided in by Yves Montand until his death) and supping at the Le Vieux Moulin, I've spent the time regrouping. The course was taxing, the demi road trip across the Cote d'Azur was fun but tiring and St. Tropez was lovely but not relaxing. At this place, here, I've studied, napped, and completely reorganized my belongings with the intent of shipping one entire suitcase home. (I don't recommend packing with a fever of 101.)

St. Paul is charming, for certain but it is also the first place I've experienced with the dreaded tour buses. I've seen more Americans en masse here (as well as Germans and Italians) than any of the other spots I've happened into. I don't care what country their from, people of one place entering en masse is not a pretty sight. The tour buses are gone by dinner but the presence of school groups and large slightly xenophobic travelers can nearly suck the charm right out of a place. As St. Paul has a surplus, it's ok but I'm glad that I will be travel ling back into the innards of Provence, where I'm less likely the encounter the same.

And while it's been really nice spending time with Ann and John here at the villa and the other group of guests - three generations (five total) of the same family from Brooklyn and Paris - speaking English all day has diminished the small bit of French I've acquired.I continue to study each day, however, and it does get easier.

There's a lot I want to write about how to tell if someone is American by looking at their shoes, how gaggles of school children babble like brooks, equally stream and particle, and about the light in Provence. Much has been said about all, I believe, especially the light in Provence (it really is different) but my muse is sleeping, as must I maitenant.

Tomorrow I plan on beginning the day on my terrace, practicing yoga with my new friend Sarah and then perhaps lunch at the Colombe D'or, de rigeur for the new arrivals.