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.
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