Walking Tour of Provence, June 2001 – Journal Entries
June 22, 2001
The Flight
The overnight flight to France left Kennedy Airport in NY without incident having been quiet and turbulence free. Now, the sky outside the airplane window is becoming a soft blue haze and along the horizon I can see the first warm pink glow of dawn over Europe. At the moment we are flying over Paris. While I have come to find flying to be generally disagreeable and occasionally frightening, it is at moments such as this that I must admit it is glorious. What a view! Local time has it at 5am, but in New York time it is still 11pm, so it’s not really all that late. I have spent the majority of the flight on this hotel-sized Lufthansa reading and working on some writings I am doing. Ahhh… and the view is getting very pretty now… so I think I will take a photo from through the window… my first on the trip. Not too shabby, Sony.
June 23, 2001
The City of Nice
After a (mercifully) brief layover in beautiful (from the air) Frankfort, we arrived in Nice. The journey over the Alps was impressive, to say the least. The view from the plain was spectacular. When we landed we were met by Jean Jacques, our GoAhead Vacations Tour Guide, who immediately impressed me with his friendly and humorous attitude.
At
the airport, we had the opportunity to obtain Francs from the ATM machine at
the airport, which was very convenient.
It is said that this is the best way to do so, as you can get the best
exchange rate through the ATM. However,
you may also pay a transaction fee to the banking institution, so I don’t
really know if it equals out. Anyway,
it is convenient. So we boarded our
bus (the latest model of the Mercedes bus line, apparently), which is rather
large and roomy with little tray tables and curtains, and were off to the
beautiful coastal city of Nice. Once
in the city Jean Jacques took us to the open air flower market and then the
group split up. I spent an hour or so
walking along the beach and poking around the open air market there, and
looking at the sites. It’s a beautiful city. I now happen to be blissfully
sipping café au lait just a stone throw away from the “Bay of Angels”. It is an absolutely charming city where
lovers of beauty come to enjoy the scenery and sip tiny cups of coffee. As Jean Jacques is fond of saying, “Nice is
nice”. He is most certainly right.
“Founded by the Phocaeans of Marseille (a colony of Greek
mariners) around 350 BC, the city was probably named in honour of a victory
(nike in Greek) over a neighbouring colony. Conquered by the Romans during the
1st century AD, it became a busy trading station. The town was held by the
counts of Provence during the 10th century, and in 1388 passed under the
protection of the counts of Savoy, who held it until 1860, although it was
captured and occupied several times by the French during the 17th and 18th
centuries. Nice was ceded to France by the Treaty of Turin (1860), after which
a referendum ratified the decision. The Paillon River, now partly built over,
separates the new town to the west from the old town, the harbour, and the
commercial district to the east. The old town, with narrow winding streets,
stands at the western base of a granite hill known as Le Château, although the
castle that used to crown it was destroyed in 1706. The harbour, begun in 1750
and extended after 1870, is used by commercial vessels (imports include cereals
and vegetable oils), fishing craft, and pleasure boats. There is also a regular
passenger service to Corsica. The most striking part of the new town is the
famous Promenade des Anglais, which originated in 1822 as a path along the shore
built by the English colony. It stretches 2.5 mi (4 km) along the waterfront,
and consists of two wide carriageways separated by flower beds and palm trees.“
Wandering through Nice later in the day taking pictures, I happened upon a book fair. All of the books were in French, which unfortunately I am not quite proficient enough to read at this point. I didn’t buy any books but browsed around looking at the scenery instead. I was not there for books, but had decided I should like to meet an intelligent Provencial or two to converse with. In fact, I meet a very nice, intelligent young woman while waiting on line for a beverage. I said “Bon Jour”, and she replied “Bon Jour”, and thus we began to converse for a pleasant hour or so as we sat together with our drinks. She goes by the pen name of Green Turtle and was there to promote her English-French book “Carnet de voyage Travel Note Ireland”. She speaks English fluently, and with a Scottish accent (not a French accent) which I found quite charming. It was nice to meet her. But after an hour I had to hurry back to meet the tour group, so I wished her farewell and rushed off.
Musings in Nice
According to Green Turtle, when comparing the two languages, one should be aware that French is not as precise a language as English. It is poetic language and leaves to the imagination much of what would be specified more exactly were the words and ideas originated in English. It is an interesting distinction, and one has the impression that the romantic mind of the French can not easily be translated into English. Nor can precise phrases of English be easily conveyed in French. All of which this leads me to the conclusion that the philosophic difference between the French and the English peoples generally is that one is poetic, wrapped in mists and colors, vague, intangible and romantic, while the other is a bit less charming, but precise and relatively efficient. Thus, I muse, the French people may be inherently different than the English in so far as the very nature of the way they think is so dissimilar. This conversation gave me a good deal of insight into the French way of things, and for the remainder of the journey it has been helpful to consider France to be a land of poets and linguistic artists, and not to expect too much in the way of efficiency and precision. I have a strange feeling I will find this to be true enough as the tour continues, and imagine that the color of my perceptions have been enhanced by this interesting observation.
The City of Cannes
Then it was time for me to meet with the tour again and we left Nice in the late afternoon to go to Cannes. We arrived at the hotel, the Cannes Palace, which is quite pleasant if a bit smaller than what Americans might be used to so far as room sizes are concerned. We refreshed ourselves in preparation for dinner, which was also, as is typical in France, a bit smaller than what Americans might be used to. In fact it seems quite common that in France one should expect the meals to be relatively petite, but what they lack in size they make up for handsomely by being very flavorful and prepared with only very freshest and most delicious ingredients.
Once
settled in my room, I went to walk along the beach before dinner. Stopping off at an outdoor café I had a
lovely cup of café au lait and worked on a special project that I am doing here
in France. It was wonderful to sit and
watch the people strolling by while sipping my café au lait. In France, I came to discover, if you ask
for a “coffee” you will most probably be served a tiny coffee cup of strong
Expresso. To get something resembling
American coffee you would either order a “Café au lait”, which is more like a
Caffè Latte in America, or you might be able to get away with ordering
“un café American” and see what you get.
I never did try that, however, partially because I love café au lait,
and partially because I wanted very much to slip into the local culture as much
as possible. In order to do so I spoke
as much French as I could manage when speaking with the local people. I usually started any conversation with
“Pardon, je ne parle Francaise tres bien, mais…” which simply means “Pardon me,
I do not speak French very well, but…”.
This is a good way to introduce yourself in France as the French people,
quite rightly, adore their beautiful language and show appreciation when
foreigners at least attempt to speak it.
I have found that a little bit of respect and courtesy goes a long way
in France.
“Cannes lies southwest of Nice. Named for the canes of its
once-reedy shore, it was probably settled by Ligurian tribesmen and occupied
successively by Phocaeans, Celts (or Gauls), and Romans. In the 4th century it
came under the protection of the monks of Lérins, whose abbots were lords of
Cannes and who in the 10th century built fortifications under Pointe du
Chevalier to guard against Muslim sea raiders. Napoleon, on the first night of
his return from Elba, encamped his small army in the dunes outside the village.
The international resort reputation of Cannes originated with Lord Brougham,
who, prevented by quarantine measures from entering Nice in 1834, stopped at the
fishing village of Cannes; he later built a villa and returned every winter for
34 years.”
Dinner was served promptly at 8pm, which Jean Jacques tells us is the typical dinner time in France. It may help to explain why the French seem to be universally thin, despite a rich diet of cheeses, sausages, oils and wines. Also, I expect that they exercise quite a bit, but have no exact proof of that. The dinner itself was superb. A lovely local rose wine, and a delicious Salmon with very tasty vegetables. Not a large amount of food, but quite satisfying. After dinner I had the pleasure of walking along the beach into Cannes with Jean Jacques and Amy, the GoAhead Vacations sales manager who was on the tour in order to review it. We had a nice stroll down the boardwalk and into the city. What a serene and beautiful place this is.
As tired as I was after the long flight, and as late as it was by New York time, I decided to stay awake until 10:30pm French time thinking that this will acclimate me to the new time zone as quickly as possible. I am hoping that this is the case at any rate.
June 24, 2001
Cannes in the morning
By 5:00am I was out the door hunting for sunrise photographs of Cannes. I walked along the beach and found myself in a grand plaza beneath the citadel that overlooks the city. The plaza is on the rim of a sea port, so there are a hundred boats of every size and kind. The citadel was too far to get to in the time I had so I took a few photographs and then hurried back to meet the tour group for a delightful croissant breakfast before departure. And what croissants they were! Topped with little almonds and filled with a delicious almond paste, taken with sips of café au lait, it was heavenly. .Then, at 8:30 promptly, we were off on our way towards Avignon.
Saint-Maximin-La-Ste-Baume
After a long beautiful drive through the country side along the knife edged roads of southern France we arrived at our first destination, the rustic village of Saint-Maximin-La-Ste-Baume. Here, in this tiny magical place, is the basilica of Saint Mary Magdalene, and it is said that she is buried there. The story goes that after the Crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, Saint Maximus, Saint Lazarus, Saint Martha and Mary Magdalene were exiled from Israel and made their way by boat to a tiny French village on the shores of Mediterranean France. The Basilica of Saint Marie was constructed directly over a Roman villa and has been an important place of Christian pilgrimage for many centuries. The crypt, it is said, contains the tomb Mary Magdalene. There is reputedly a skull kept in the Basilica that is believed to be that of Mary Magdalene herself.
Jean Jacques and I happened to meet by chance on the plaza in front of the Basilica. We went inside the Basilica and for a few precious moments listened to the service which was being conducted in somber melodious tones, and was quite beautiful, even though I could not understand the words.
Facing the plaza in front of the basilica is a bust of Frédéric Mistral (1830-1914). He was a famous poet who is revered in Provence as one who upheld the cultural integrity of region when it was being threatened by external forces sometime in the last century. I did not have much time to learn more about him, unfortunately. But the bust was pretty so I took a picture of it.
Next to the basilica of Marie is an ancient and beautiful convent which has been converted into a gorgeous restaurant and music center. There happened to be rehearsals going on for an opera competition when Jean Jacques took me to see the interior of the lovely building. As we strolled around the building operatic melodies filled the air. It was all quite otherworldly.
At the town we had scarce time to see all that was there to see and to shop for our picnic lunch which we planned to have at the top of what I imagined would be a hill. I was particularly impressed with the medieval doorways that have been painted with sublime pinks, greens and blues throughout the tiny village. It is a marvelous place. For the picnic lunch I purchased a baguette, a slice of cheese, two apples and some Perrier water. This gave me a chance to practice my French. It was grand fun, really. And off we hurried to the next amazing location.
When
we arrived at the base of the massive cliff upon which Saint Marie’s Grotto and
chapel are located I could scarcely make out the tiny dot that is the chapel to
Saint Marie perched precariously at the edge of the enormous crag. This
was the goal of today’s pilgrimage! I
realized that this was no mere hill we were about to stroll up to, as I had
imagined, but a mind boggling ascent into the dizzying heights. Astounded at
the precipitous path, I took a deep breath, tried to maintain a calm
expression, and attempted to pacify my anxiety by imagining myself eating my
wonderful picnic lunch at the top. However, it was only when I looked at the
intrepid members of our little group that I was able to shake off my momentary
doubts. Seeing as I was with such a
hearty crew of mature women, their few doughty husbands, and thimbleful of us
younger folk, all of whom were eager to make the ascent, what else could I
do? Estimating that it couldn’t really
be as difficult as it appeared, and under the soothing assurances to that
effect from our elfin guide, I set myself to the task and took a lead position
with Jean Jacques. Over the dusty road
and into the blazing heat of the sun we went.
Down a dirt road and into the forest we walked. Now we were plunged into a joyful woodland
dappled by sun beams.
The trail we took brought us through some of the prettiest forest you can imagine, filled with rippling ferns, massive white stones covered with mosses and shaded by luxurious green oaks. Fairies and elves clearly have made their home in this region, I thought to myself. Up and up we climbed over the stones which had been smoothed by long centuries of pilgrims before us. It wasn’t long before all of the ladies had trekked far ahead of us and out of view. Up toward the cave of Saint Marie Magdalene’s hermitage we went, and onward higher yet toward the tiny chapel at the edge of the precipice.
Somewhere higher up on this path is the Grotto where it is said that Marie spent the last 30 some odd years of her life, praying, doubtlessly, to the Almighty for the Salvation of the human race. Finally, we made it to a monument adorned with freshly cut roses which marked the fork in the road toward which the Grotto was located. The other way winds further upward toward the high chapel upon the cliff. Unfortunately, we were informed by fence and barrier and warning sign that the cave had been closed due to the tragedy of pilgrims being harmed by falling rocks from the higher cliffs above. We were warned in no uncertain terms that the Grotto of Saint Marie was off limits.
Not in the least bit daunted by this (foolishly, no doubt), nor by the probability of being stopped by an angry priest who we were informed dwells at the mouth of the cave, I and one companion, a hearty soul by the name of Jim, made our way over the fence, past the signs and up the narrow trail that leads, we thought, toward the cave. After a bit we passed a closed hut beneath a tall cliff. Up into the unknown we wandered, up the narrow trail through dense woods buzzing with swarms of bizarre looking orange flies, over tangled roots and pools of fetid water, and past several steep drop offs. Along another cross path we went. And another, and another. Yet each turn the path grew more narrow, wild and bewildering. We then came upon a wide white stone alter with a giant metal worked cross upon it. I took the liberty of taking a tiny stone from it as a souvenir and made a short silent prayer as I am inclined to do on such occasions.
We turned down another path and continued. Some distance below us a line of German youths tramped along a parallel path singing an unfathomable Germanic marching song and laughing their way through the sun dappled woods like a band of mountain dwarves. I hailed to them in French (limited though it is) to see if they might direct us toward the cave which we were not certain we would find. They knew no French, but one spoke passable English. They did not, however, know which way the cave was. And so they passed into the woodlands with a hearty laughter and were gone.
We continued to seek out the cave, but I began to get a bit worried that we would encounter somewhere along the way the angry priest of the Grotto. I was prepared, however, with a well chosen French phrase which I hoped would get us and into his good graces. “Deus le Volt”, meaning “God wills it”, was the saying shouted by the First Crusaders after the preaching of that Crusade by Saint Bernard de Clairveaux. Had we met the old priest that’s what I would have said to him, and I would have meant it sincerely.
Eventually, I decided that we were off in the wrong direction after scouting ahead over some dangerous footing. We turned back. Eventually we passed the closed building and tried the door thinking it might itself be the entrance to the mysterious cave. The door was blocked with a huge wooden brace. “It would be a shame for us to have come all this way and not see the cave” I suggested. Jim agreed and so we headed up the path that we had originally shied away from, the one which had the “Warning: Danger” sign. Up the rock bestrewn path we scrambled. Now we peered around a second bend and over a pitted and treacherous path that was once a stairway leading upward along the far side of an ancient stone wall. The path was strewn with head sized boulders and the barely discernable steps had sorely crumbled with age, undoubtedly difficult even in the best of its days. At any moment I expected the fierce shouting of the mad priest, or for a loose stone to dash my brains out as we climbed. I made my prayers along the way. Out of the blue, overhanging the path above us loomed an amazing cliff side castle. I took a picture, and we moved on.
We came to another bend and the stairs led us upward to a solidly shut gray gate beyond which could be seen several huge crosses made of wood upon which the various images of the Savior hung, overlooking the dilapidated stairs, the forest, the valley, and presumably the sea, now beyond our view. This must be the cave of saint Marie Magdalene I reasoned. Jim agreed. Good enough for me. We then were joined by a small band of our German friends who themselves had also found their way up the stairs to the cave. We conferred in broken English and all agreed that this was indeed the Grotto of Saint Marie Magdalene.
And so, we made our way back down to the monument of Saint Marie at the fork in the path, swatting the mosquito swarms along the way, and began the true ascent up the cliff. Here things got steep. The sun was broiling. The rocks were worn smooth, loose and tricky. This is not Disney world, and I have no doubt that many a pilgrim may have met calamity on their journey.
Nevertheless, the view became breathtaking and after what seemed an impossibly long time we crested the cliff and found ourselves on the wide expanse of the summit. The region is scattered with white and brown sun-scorched stones, and many small leafy shrubs. No real shade was to be found, and again we headed across the rocks toward the chapel. Several of our group were making their way back in our direction by this time, warning us of the sun-crisping shade-less heat and lunch-devouring goats at the chapel.
Around another bend and there was the chapel. Stark, simple, a stoic little structure, guarded by a huge horned goat standing defiantly in the only other shade within six miles – the very doorway of the chapel, looking like a devilish vision from some medieval nightmare.
“Beh-eh-eh”. The goats were upon me. Several of them came around to poke their noses into my satchel where my lunch sat barely protected from their predations. I swatted the feisty critters away and headed off to where Jean Jacques had secured the only shade within the region beneath a larger than average shrub. Then I sat down for a much desired and much enjoyed cheese and baguette lunch. Apples for desert and cool sparkling Perrier water. Ahhh, now that’s the life for me!
After lunch Jean Jacques and I took a photo op with the goats at the chapel. We enticed them to a feeding frenzy by holding our last scraps of bread in our hands and tossing apple cores close by our feet. They circled, feasted and we shot footage. Finally, we had enough of the goats and I “shew”ed the last two of them away just as one would a pair of puppies saying “Be off with you”, swishing the air with my hands to scatter them. They trotted off obediently. I thought it was rather wizardly of me to order them be-gone that way, while Jean Jacques maintained in amazement that darling creatures understood English. We both had a good laugh and headed back down, far down, across the foot-worn rocks, into the forest, across the dusty road and to the convent café for a nice glass of iced lemonade. I was drenched in sweat like everyone else. Fabulous! Along the way, Jean Jacques and I found a moss covered shrine to Saint Marie which appeared quite abandoned, and he was kind enough to pose for me in the guise of a worshipful pilgrim. He’s a great guy; quite a lot of fun. Deeply knowledgeable, humorous, and charming, he certainly has made this adventure three times as fun as it would have been without him.
One caveat regarding this path, if you should find yourself tempted to go there: bring sturdy ankle high hiking boots. I wore sneakers and nearly twisted my ankle at least three times. Be careful. Be prepared.
Musings in Ste Baume
To see our enormous bus wind its way over the precariously thin roads that line the coasts and inner regions of Provence, and to experience the spectacle of a three inch leeway space on either side of the bus windows as it navigates through the tiny streets of some French villages, one would think it as implausible as the flight of the bumblebee. Yet, with a bit of good-natured jostling, some extraordinary backing up and improbable corner banking, we seem to make it through each curve without driving anyone off the road. The French on the whole seem to take the existence of this giant vehicle with the same pleasant alacrity that they take everything else in their country. It never seems to be a problem, no one shouts or screams, and people quietly and serenely veer slightly onto the side of the road, or reverse their cars for the few feet necessary without the slightest trace of hostility. This must be a product of the easy going nature of French living. It is to be admired. It is quite difficult to imagine the same serene responses in America.
Arrival in Avignon
From the town of Saint-Maximin-La-Ste-Baume we made our way to Avignon, which took two hours to get to along the narrow French road and past absolutely enchanting countryside.
“Avignon,
the capital of Vaucluse département, Provence-Alpes-Côte-d'Azur region,
southeastern France, at a point on the east bank of the Rhône River where the
narrow valley opens into a broad delta plain, northwest of Nîmes. A stronghold
of the Gallic tribe of Cavares that became the Roman city of Avennio, it was a
much-fought-over prize, although never of primary importance until it became
the capital of the papacy in 1309.
At that time, Avignon was not on French soil but belonged to
vassals of the pope. Avignon was bought by Clement VI, the fourth of seven
Avignon popes, in 1348 from Queen Joan of Provence and remained papal property
until the French Revolution. The Avignon papacy, derisively referred to as the
“second Babylonian captivity” of the popes, lasted from 1309 to 1377.
Avignon was especially detested by Italians of the papal
court. Petrarch described it as where the winter mistral winds blow bitterly,
“a sewer where all the muck of the universe collects.” The papal territory was
a place of sure asylum, and the city harboured heretics and criminals, its
taverns and houses of pleasure making it a byword for debauch. Avignon was
often swept by the plague. Sometimes the routiers (private armies that lived by
pillage between mercenary engagements) would descend upon the city, departing
only after receiving a papal blessing and large sums of money.
Papal legates continued to govern the city until 1791, when
the French National Assembly annexed it. In its seizure, there was bloodshed
and the interior of the Palais des Papes was wrecked. The palace, a formidable
eight-towered fortress on a rock 190 ft (58 m) above the town, was used as a
barracks from 1822 to 1906.
One of the largest châteaux-forts still standing, it is
really two buildings. The Palais Vieux (1334–42) is austere, the Palais Nouveau
(1342–52) rich with architectural devices and embellishment. There are numerous
small chapels and three large chapels decorated with 14th-century frescoes.
Alongside the palace is the Romanesque cathedral (12th century) of
Notre-Dame-des-Doms, burial place of two of the popes. In the town below 
there
are 16th- and 17th-century houses and six churches dating from the 14th to the
17th century. Two of these are chapels of pénitents noirs, lay groups of
14th-century flagellants who marched hooded and barefoot through the streets
and whose membership included kings of France. The ramparts built by the popes
still gird the town, 3 miles (5 km) in circuit, with machicolated battlements
(projecting turrets), towers, and gates.
Four arches of the famed Saint-Bénézet bridge (of the song
“Sur le pont d'Avignon”) still reach out from the town, its Romanesque St.
Nicholas Chapel still perched on the second pier. The Rhône currents had defied
bridging until St. Bénézet and his disciples built this one in 1177–88. Broken
several times, it was abandoned in 1680. People did dance there, as in the
song—not on it but underneath it, on the Île de la Barthelasse. A suspension
bridge and span now cross the Rhône downstream”
Settling into the very pleasant Bristol Hotel, I took a shower and then skipped the optional tour of the city (I had seen it the first (and last) time I had been to Avignon in 1993), and instead am enjoying a seat at a local café for a quiet dinner of sliced duck and French fries and a glass of Red wine. Apparently in France there is no reluctance to serve French fries, even with such a fancy duck dinner. Heh heh (love French fries!). So I am munching happily away and watching the beautiful girls of Avignon stroll by while writing in my journal. It would be difficult to imagine being much happier at the moment.
Off into the city I went in search of the elusive “Good shots” I had come to France well prepared to take. I am armed with my brand new Sony DSC S75 digital 3.34 mega pixel, 3x Optical zoom, & 64 Meg memory stick. Good for about 400 photos at the lower end of the resolution scale (640x480). It’s a great camera and take fabulous pictures in nearly all lighting conditions. Movies too if you like, but I feel I haven’t the memory space to spend on movies.
Now it is getting late and I must fall fast asleep. Je suis tres fatigue. Voila! What a day!
Musings in Avignon
The French thrive on the pleasures of life. Beautiful surroundings, well seasoned meals, and good companionship mean much more to them than work related achievements. You can see it reflected in the beauty of their villages, and unspoiled countryside, the preparation of their food, and the general ambiance of relaxed pleasure which fills the air.
When it comes to efficiency, conversely, then we find that France can sometimes seem like an odd place to the American observer. How they manage amid the vagaries and inconsistencies of French life is something of a mystery to the American mind.
However, I have read recently that the easy-going life style may actually produce a higher level of productivity in France, as the people are not nearly as stressed out as their American counterparts. I can believe it.
June 25, 2001
Breakfast in Avignon
This morning I woke up luxuriously late, although this was entirely unintended. My hotel phone did not take the “programming” for my wake up call for some reason, doubtless having something to do with the French “way of things”. Instead of waking up at 7:30 as planned, I woke up at 9:30. Actually, it was just in time for me to run into Jean Jacques in the lobby. He had come to see where I was, holding up the tour of the Palace du Papes for me. Unfortunately there was a slight misunderstanding as I had mentioned to him the day before that I would not be going with them for that one. So he, in his amiable way, without the slightest trace of distress, excused himself and ran off to the crowd which was waiting for him. To tell the truth, I felt bad about it, but there was simply nothing I could do except make the best of the morning, which I did.
In fact, at the moment I am sitting at a lovely café drinking nothing other than my favorite beverage, café au lait, of course. The work I am doing here in France is coming along extremely well, and I have already gained several useful ideas for the project. In case you should ever hear of it in the future the project is called Elthos. Perhaps you may if all goes well. I myself am exceedingly pleased with my work thus far. France has the right atmosphere for this sort of work, believe me.
Now my mind is beginning to actually think in tiny French phrases, which pleases me to no end.
- Oh, my! I’ve just recalled that I am entirely out of French Franks this morning. I forgot to get more before I ordered my drinks. Will this be a problem? We shall see soon enough. I am imagining myself hoisted into a French jail. Eep. Perhaps the patron will allow me to run off to the bank to get some money.
Well, the waiter was a kind hearted soul, especially for one who lives in a tourist town, and despite my piecemeal French he understood that I was out of money and would return from the bank soon. He directed me very kindly to where it would be easiest to get some cash and did not even bat an eye or trouble himself to ask me to leave something behind as collateral. I was impressed. Exceptionally nice people these French.
Then it was time for the next leg of our tour.
Pont du Gard
By
bus we wove our way through the beautiful French countryside, crowded with
pastures, and farms, and beatific fields of purple, red and yellow flowers.
There is no industry anywhere to be seen. Only ancient looking stone houses
with the classic Mediterranean orange-yellow tiles and wooden shutters painted
in rich greens and pastel blues. Moss climbs ancient walls, and green vines festoon
the roadsides. It’s perfectly lovely. I
am, again, amazed.
Eventually we arrived at the Pont du Gard, about 25 miles from Avignon spanning the Gard River. It is a magnificent Roman aqueduct built at the dawn of the Roman Imperial Era by the Roman Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa to channel water from Uzès to the city of Nimes. It was completed by the XXIV Legion around the year 19 BC. It is one of the great architectural achievements of the Roman Empire. In fact it served as not only as an aqueduct, but also as a bridge capable of transporting both men and chariots across its span. Nimes actually had a well within the city, but when the Roman Legions were due to inherit the land of Nimes as a reward for their dangerous labors in the wars of Gaul, Agrippa decided to add to the water supply. Water, Jean Jacques explained, was very important to the Romans as they used it extensively for baths and fountains within the city. The Romans were a clean people. Most of the aqueduct is actually subterranean, which should be a cause of considerable wonder. The declination of the entire 50 mile structure is 1:3000, or a total of twelve meters. The skill that went into its construction is amazing. And the fact that it stands to this day is a testimony to the greatness of the Roman people.
As we walked across the base of the Pont du Gard, I think we were all agreed that the temperature had gotten a bit oppressive. I was certainly working up a sweat. At the base of the trail running beneath the Aqueduct there is a quietly ambling river of cool green waters, and some people were frolicking about in it. None of us had brought swim suites so we stood and gawked as sweat rolled into our eyes. If you head out that way in June, do bring your swim suit. You’ll thank yourself later. Nevertheless, Jean Jacques lead us with his usual elfin humor to see the bright, laughable side of it all and so we headed back to the restaurant for ice cream.
Musings at the Café at Pont du Gard
By
the way, in France if you ask for “Ice”, lets say for your drink, you should
not be surprised if you receive an ice cream cone instead. In French the word
for ice is “Glace”, which is also the same word for ice cream. Also, you should know that the French tend
to use much less ice then we do in America, so you will find that if you really
want your drink with ice in it, you will often have to ask for it. Try pointing at the glass and say something
like “Glace, si vous plait”. If you are fortunate you will have a waiter who
gets the idea and will return with ice, and not a glass of ice cream.
Another thing that one should be aware of in France in the summer is that they do not use nearly as much air conditioning as we do in America. This often means that the air conditioning may be turned off at night, when it is perceived that the air is cooler. In some cases Americans who are not used to sleeping in mildly hot air may find it uncomfortable. If that is the case then one would want to make sure that their rooms are equipped with air conditioners before you book your accommodations.
Les Baux
We then made our way to the ancient and stalwart stone fortress of Les Baux, rooted to the top of its grand hill and overlooking the valley below.
“… a village, Bouches-du-Rhône département, Provence-Alpes-Côte-d'Azur
région, southeastern France, on a spur of the Alpilles Hills rising abruptly
from the valley floor, northeast of Arles. On this rocky hill, about 1,000
yards (900 m) long and 220 yards (200 m) wide, are a ruined château and streets
of abandoned houses, plus a church, a museum, and small modern tourist
installations. In the European Middle Ages this was the seat of the mighty
lords of Baux, who in the 11th century held 72 towns and domains in Provence
and the Dauphiné including the principality of Orange. In the 13th century
their cours d'amour drew highborn ladies and troubadours. Over the centuries
their struggles against the pope, the rulers of Provence, and the kings of
France reduced the power of the house. In 1632 Louis XIII destroyed the château
and city walls. Although the city later became a marquisate under the
Grimaldis, its prominence was ended. At the Church of Saint-Vincent (12th
century), shepherds still come with their animals to the midnight mass.”
Les Baux, is an ancient settlement, and one of the hubs around which gravitates the history of all of Provence. Local sovereignty first began in 950 AD, with the commencement of the Vicariate of Arles which ruled in the name of the king of Provence. The first seigniors were members of the Pons family, and Ugo I Pons was the first true ruler of Les Baux, and the designer of its first fortress. It is said that he was a descendant of one of the three wise men who attended Jesus in the manger, and in there are beautiful dolls of the three wise men to be seen in the museum there.
The location of the city, which dominates the local countryside, made Les Baux a point of contention among the many potentiates who wished to aquire it. The majesty of its court, wherein the lyric poetry of the troubadours first blossomed, and it’s fame made Les Baux even more desirable. Les Baux therefore was to see many deadly battles and terrible sieges, but its walls always repelled the attacks. During the religious wars in France, Les Baux, whose seignior had converted to Protestantism, became an invincible refuge for victims of religious persecution.
One
can see from the escarpment the distant city of Arles across the green fields
of the plane. The town is the seat of a
maze of bauxite mines which are no longer being mined there. The mine entrances
have left huge square openings leading deep into the darkness of the
mountain. Some of them have been
converted into small chapels replete with statues and fresh flowers.
Winding our way upward through the tiny streets we came upon the church of Les Baux which has a plain ruddy exterior offset by an exquisite inner chamber. Within are statues, and ancient baptismal font, and a small set of pews for those who come there to pray. I can only imagine that the services there, in French (or was it Latin?), must be quite lovely.
At the height of it’s escarpment is an overlook of the village below, and the countryside can be seen far and wide round about the towering fortress. One can imagine invading armies of lance wielding and armored knights on stallions coming over the plains with their banners flapping in the wind and horns blaring on their way toward certain death beneath the walls of that impregnable city.
On the plateau before the fortress, now a ruined series of walls and towers, there are some rather large and imposing medieval catapults and one humongous Roman crossbow; engines of destruction from a long lost age.
Climbing to the very peak of the first tower took some fortitude in the heat of the midday sun, but the view from there was spectacular and well worth the climb. The steps leading to the tower are very much worn away, however, so if you decide to make the climb you must be careful. At one spot there is a drop off without much of a railing which may well dispose of a tourist or two every once in a while when the wind is high and the weather poor. So do be careful; that’s my advice.
Chateauneuf-du-Papes
After experiencing the power and majesty that is Les Baux we took a trip through the countryside to have a magnificent dinner at the Chateauneuf-du-Papes. There we were instructed by our host on the art of wine tasting, and we sampled some very nice wines there. We also received the privilege of being able to order wines from Chateauneuf-du-Papes which can only be ordered by people who have physically visited the Chateau. Very nice.
After a wonderful wine tasting in the ancient Roman cellars of the Château we resurfaced for a delicious, if small, dinner consisting of a delectable salad, fresh bread, roasted pork and potatoes, and of course, more wine. What could be finer? Well, more food, naturally, but I think had I not been so famished from all of the hiking I might very well have been quite satisfied. As we left the Chateau it was sunset and the view became visionary. It was more beautiful than my words can describe, so I will suffice to tell you that it was magnificent. Then the sun set completely and as we pulled away the moon was high and the sky was filled with stars. With but mere heroic efforts, Amie our driver managed to extract the giganto-mobile from the driveway of the chateau and after a brief journey toward Orange, turned us about so that we were again heading for Avignon. As a side trip, we went to view the city of Avignon at night from across the river so we could see the beautiful Palace du Papes and the remaining four arches of the famous Bridge of Avignon lit up in a spectacular fashion. It was very beautiful indeed.
Musings at the Chateauneuf-du-Papes
The French, of course, are wonderfully flirtatious, and so, naturally, I tried to pick up as much as I could about this as well. Of course, it doesn’t necessarily help to simply imitate the French, you should know. Apparently, one actually has to Be French to pull it off. Heh heh. Actually, the French have a flirtatious style all to themselves, which is one of the things that makes the country so charming.
June 26, 2001
Fountaine du Vaucluse
We did not return to Avignon until 11:30 that evening, and so I fell asleep immediately. It was an amazing day, yesterday. But now on to today’s adventure. Our first destination was the magnificent Fountaine du Vaucluse. It is a quiet, picturesque village nestled within a semi circular bank of massive cliffs. The village, quite ancient, is filled with cheerful little shops and friendly inhabitants. We walked through the quaint streets of the town passing an archaic and rather stoic looking church which featured what appears to be an extremely ancient statue of a man defeating a dragon, apparently with his bare hands, which if you think about it is rather an astonishing feat. I should love to know the story of that statue.
“[Vaucluse]…département
in Provence-Alpes-Côte-d'Azur region, southeastern France, created in 1793 from
the Comtat Venaissin (a papal possession in Provence), the principality of
Orange, and a part of Provence (q.v.). It is bounded west by the Rhône River
and south by the Durance River, below which the Bouches-du-Rhône département
extends southward to the Mediterranean. The northern boundary runs eastward
from a point on the Rhône about 15 mi (25 km) northwest of Orange; just above
the border, northwest of Vaison-la-Romaine, the canton of Valréas, a small
exclave of Vaucluse, is surrounded by the Drôme département. With its exclave
the Vaucluse département has an area of 1,377 sq mi (3,566 sq km).
The western part consists of the lowlands of the Rhône
Valley, which are crossed by streams from the Pre-Alpes, including the Aigues,
Ouvèze, Nesque, and Sorgue. The west–east blocks of limestone mountains that
occupy the eastern part rise steeply from the plain. The northern range to the
east of Orange culminates in the majestic Mont Ventoux, (6,263 ft [1,909 m]),
the highest point in the département. At the west end of the Plateau de
Vaucluse, south of Mont Ventoux, Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, famous for its association
with the 14th-century Italian poet Petrarch, the Sorgue River issues from
underground in the form of a resurgent spring. The Lubéron mountain chain,
extending west–east above the Durance Valley for 25 mi, culminates at a height
of 3,691 ft (1,125 m) in the Grand Lubéron.”
In the center of the town is an ancient stele shaded by huge green oaks in a large shaded square, and a turbulent river of white foams and amazing green-blue colors frothing beneath several wide bridges through the center of the village. We found ourselves at the very base of the cliffs where there is a pool of still turquoise water that appears to be still as a sheet of glass. However, we are informed by Jean Jacques, every year or so, the mountains suddenly and without warning burst forth an unimaginable torrent of water that roars out of this hole and surges down the rivers, and lasts for anywhere between three weeks and three months. That certainly must be an impressive site to behold. Jacques Coustaue once tried to find the source of this fountain in a miniature submarine but after two hundred meters into what must have been a dark turbulent journey through tightly confined spaces he was forced to retreat from the behemoth’s mouth in defeat. It would appear that the mountains do not wish to divulge their ancient secret.
Petrarch, (1304-74)
the philosopher-historian of the French Papal era had lived in this town and
written much commentary on the ways of the Popes in Avignon. Apparently he was not much loved in that
city, which he described as “a sewer where all the muck of the universe
collects.”. However, his name and his words are remembered to this day.
Once we had viewed the fountain itself a handful of the more intrepid members of our group headed up a very narrow path through steep and rocky woodlands toward a ruined citadel which remains a testimony of the wars that were fought here through out the dark ages. High upon its craggy peak the walls of the ruin overlook the tiny vale. It was a castle built by a bishop of long ago. One could imagine the innumerable blood drenched battles fought beneath the towering walls of the citadel, and the treasures that might have fallen there. So, I did my best to search for hidden treasures, hoping I might find an undiscovered secret door leading to long forgotten chambers carved deep into the hillside. Never know what you might find if you look, eh? Rien.
Luberon Forest
Our next march was deep into the Luberon forest, high on it's mighty plateau. The forest itself was loud with the cries and laughter of hundreds of children, but once we had climbed far away into the forest things grew quite peaceful. Eventually, we reached the heights and had a picnic of olives, cheeses and fresh tomatoes with fresh baguettes and Perrier. It was quite nice to sit in the shade of a large bush with the others overlooking the scenic splendor. The view from the heights was inspirational. I took a few photographs and then it was time to make our way back down the mountain.
Musings in Luberon
I must note that tomatoes in France taste and smell like real tomatoes! The same is true for strawberries, and it would seem all fruits and vegetables. How marvelous.
I have to admit that after spending time in this company of stalwarts I will have little excuse to be lazy when I get old. And that’s a good thing. I am constantly being amazed at just how hearty these companions of mine are. Had it been up to me, alone, I think I should not have made it half so far. Of course, being a programmer, I’m inclined toward the non-physical forms of labor. So, this has been great for me.
Rousillon
After the Luberon forest we traveled to Rousillon. Now there is a marvelous town for you. Like its medieval brethren it is also mounted on the top of a high hill, however, Rousillon is blessed with cliffs of the most amazing colors due to the many hues of the ochre cliffs upon which the town is built. We journeyed down into the disused ochre mines. The blazing sun set the air at a temperature of ~92 degrees Fahrenheit as we walked across the ochre colored Sahara-like sands. But the colors and the beautiful shades of green of the little forest there were astounding and well worth the effort.
Afterwards we went to the town proper and I spent a very pleasant hour or so wandering the town slurping on exceptional mint-chocolate ice cream. The village is so sweat that once seen I wished never to leave it. It was easy to take a wonderful selection of photographs there. I think it no exaggeration to say that Rousillon is one of the prettiest towns in France, and therefore most probably the world.
Dining Out in Avignon
On the way back I overheard talk of finding a great salad in Avignon for dinner. Not a bad an idea, I thought. I've been eating pretty much non-salads for a few days now and am starting to feel a wee bit guilty (but not very, since we are walking like mad). So we are off to find the object of our quest on this last evening of our stay in this enchanted city. A Great Salad.
We walked round this marvelous city examining every menu, searching diligently for salads and chickens at a fair price. Wandering the back streets on the west side of the city we came across some beautiful architectures, shared pleasant conversation and had a nice time.
We eventually settled on the Hotel du Papes Garden Restaurant and had an exquisite meal there. The most fabulous dishes were the two salads we enjoyed. She ordered the Eggplant Salad which came with six fat slices of eggplant smoothed with an amazingly delicious paste of some kind. I had ordered the Avocado salad which featured thickly sliced avocados topped with a light cream sauce and sprinkled with tiny shrimps. Naturally, we shared a lovely bottle of red wine. Then the waiter brought several tiny appetizers, which in France they actually call Entrées. The waiter had actually convinced both of us that he spoke absolutely no English until he asked me if I was ready for the next course after the second fabulous appetizer. I waved my hands in a not-entirely-sure gesture, to which he responded “Don’t stress out, man, you have plenty of time.” We found this quite amusing. Dinner was spectacular. I’d say it was a very romantic evening. Just what one hopes for when going to France.
After dinner we stopped off at one of the cafes for a few drinks, when Jean Jacques, Sheril and Elaine happened by and joined us. We spent a pleasant couple of hours laughing and enjoying one another's company at a café overlooking the carrousel in the central square near the Palace du Papes.
June 27, 2001
Gordes
Today took us away from Avignon to the impressive hill town of
Gordes, which to my mind, from a distance, very much resembles a Greek
City-State. The tiny winding cobblestone streets and huge castle combine make
the town exceedingly handsome. We spent a portion of the day there strolling
about the town examining the fortifications and sipping café au lait in the
quaint outdoor cafés. There happens to be an exquisite church in Gorde, which
from the outside you would not necessarily imagine. The colors and 
statuary
within are simply beautiful.
Jean Jacques and I took a seat together on a patio overlooking the beautiful valley from a cliff side café and where I first experienced Pastis, that wonderful licorice flavored drink which the locals adore. It packs a bit of a punch, too. If one wishes to fit in with the locals then one must drink Pastis. And if you can, try your best to order it in French. You might wind up meeting the local people that way, and there’s no better way to find out about the true nature of Provence than this.
By now, unfortunately, my poor body is feeling the strain of our journey. For some rotten reason I seem to have strained a muscle in my leg. This is very embarrassing for me, considering the company I am in, being the youngest man here and supposedly viral and strong and all that. Darn. I must have unwittingly strained my Achilles tendon somehow. Nevertheless, it will serve to my advantage, as I wish to spend a bit less time trooping and a little more time luxuriating in the atmosphere of the cafes and markets of Provence. This, I feel, is the real way to absorb the culture of France, by being in and around the people. At any rate, that’s what I intend to do. I haven’t much choice, actually. Of course, I am loath to let anyone know. Too embarrassing, though I know it shouldn’t be. These people are much too nice to make anything of it. But still…
Musings in Gordes
There is a concept in France called “France Profound”. It means to feel the very heart of the nation, to become one with the land itself, to experience the depth and breath of the true beauty of the realm. This, if one can manage it, should be the objective of all who journey here, though finding it is rare, as they say. I do feel that perhaps I was able to glimpse it momentarily here in Gordes.
As we parted the magnificent town I noticed a very interesting monument on the edge of Gordes is the beautiful and illusionary blue cubic sculpture at the edge of town that overlooks the valley. As it happens I have brought along a copy of A Wrinkle In Time, which I have been reading the entire journey and was particularly interested in the double cubic design of the monument (as part of the research I am doing, you see). I suggest that it is no mere optical illusion that causes the cubes within the cubes to change and shift in direction size and color as they do.
Vinon sur Verdun
At
the moment I am enjoying myself with a glass of red wine on the patio of my
private little room at the Hotel Olivier. Superb food and beautiful setting are
the hallmarks of this wonderful little hotel. But most notable of all is
Claude, the owner and chef. He is, as we were told and can see for ourselves, a
wonderful character of Provence. His concern for the quality of our experience
can not be over emphasized, although it should be noted that he cooks to his
own tastes, not ours. He serves anything he feels like, including a "Mad
Salad" which in fact he tosses whatever he wishes in it, and is always
superb.
Musings in Vinon du Verdun
One of my consistent fascinations of France is the quiet nonchalance of the French mind. Perfectly content to navigate themselves around our titantic bus in their tiny French-mobiles or campers, they have the attitude of those who never need to be anywhere specifically at any particular time. It's just wonderful. If only America could learn this from the French we would have a much more pleasant nation.
On the other hand, however, one must admit that Americans excel in innovation, efficiency and determination. Flying over obstacles to reach seeming impossible objectives is all part of the daily routine back home. I only hope that I don't suffer culture shock too badly upon my return. After all this peace and serenity I am going to have a difficult time readjusting to the rigors of American life, I imagine.
June 28, 2001
A morning at the Hotel Olivier
This morning was spent by the pool side at the Hotel Olivier in Vinon du Verdon. I wanted some time for myself “off tour” in order to actually relax, and am doing the same this afternoon. I don’t feel compelled to spend the entire trip with the tour group as the pace is quite rigorous, and after all, this is my vacation. I wish to return to America having been fully graced with the French ease of living. Well, as much as possible at any rate. Also, my leg has been a bother lately and it needs some time to heal up.
Aix-en-Provence
Today finds us in Aix-en-Provence. The group has gone on to do one of the optional tours in the city, a walk following the footsteps of Cezanne. I, however, wish to enjoy the atmosphere of the French city. So I headed on Jean Jacques recommendation for the cafe Le Duex Garcon. Here I am with le café au lait in hand, writing and watching les jolie femmes de Provence wander by.
Unfortunately, the city happens to be doing some construction in the middle of the main avenue so there’s a great deal of machine noise. It’s quite distracting. Those loud beeping noises when the machines go in reverse is the worst. However, the breeze is quite pleasant in the shade and I am enjoying the view immensely. Fairly soon I will seek out an affordable meal somewhere nearby.
What
a happy city Aix-en-Provence is. Here you can see the most beautiful
architecture and women in the world all blended together with sidewalk cafes
and ancient streets winding there way from one delightful square to the next. I
took a fabulous little photo essay which I am calling “Les Jolie Femmes de
Provence.” Private collection, of
course.
There was one young lady who walked by with long black hair and I could not resist running after her to take her picture. My heart was pounding, I snapped the shot. I ran ahead, tried for another at a better angle. Then I had a bright idea. “Isn’t this a little bit uncouth?”, I thought, “running after this girl taking her pictures surreptitiously? Perhaps I should simply ask her if I may take her photo.” Now, there is a reason that I was doing the photography surreptitiously, of course. I prefer to photograph people looking naturally. It’s much more difficult for someone to relax once they know that they are posing for a picture. So to get the relaxed look I attempt to “sneak” the shots by casually positioning my camera in my hand pointing in hopefully the right direction and take the shot. Now, one down side to this technique is that it’s a little bit unethical, I think, though not terribly I suppose. The other downside, however, is much worse, and is that I didn’t get to actually meet the young ladies this way, but just shoot, wandered by and review the pictures later, most of which turn out to be building tops, lamp posts and shrubbery.
This time I was determined (and hereafter I decided this is the way to go) to meet the young lady and ask her if I could get a nice picture of her at a good three quarters view, hopefully with a smile. So I trotted up beside her and said “Bon Jour”. She smiled. But did not respond. My heart was racing. “Tu parle Franciase?”, I inquired. “Oui” was her gentle response. There was a pause as we walked. “Tu es Francaise?”, I pressed. “Oui, je suis Francaise.” “Ahhh… je suis un American.” I said. She smiled again and kept walking at the same easy going pace. My heart was pounding. “Tu parle Englaise?” I inquired again. “Un pu.” She said holding up two little fingers. So I dared it all and asked her in English if I could take her picture. Non. She nodded her head and smiled shyly. Non. I didn’t press the point. I was of half a mind to get completely lost in the town following her in order to try again. But quite frankly I know my limits. Alas, but it was sweet to see her smile!
Along the way I met up with Amy and we strolled pleasantly about the town talking and joking and having a nice time. Eventually, it was time to leave Aix-en-Provence and head in for what would prove to be an exquisite meal.
Musings in Aix-en-Provence
My impression of French women is that they are friendly, perhaps a bit more serious minded than American women, but exhibit an easy humor, and slightly sardonic wit. Of course, I have no idea if this is universally true of French women, but I do think that each nation has it’s own character, and that the character of the nation can be stated generally, so long as one is not glued to the description too adamantly. I can say that the French women I’ve spoken with have been very kind to me. Strange. I imagine this would take some getting used to, but could be quite nice, really.
Dinner at the Hotel Olivier
Tonight at the Hotel Olivier I shared a delicious dinner at the hotel together with Amy and Jean Jacques and Amie, our jovial driver from Marseilles. The food at the Hotel Olivier, I thought, was fabulous. I had a beautiful baked cod, with salad and wine, and the desert was delicious.
Claude, our intense and affectionate host, was in a dither to prepare for two large groups tonight. One crowd was off on the other side of the restaurant patio, and our group was spread out on the other. It was rumored that the other group was a click of the Russian mob. We didn’t wish to object to the fact that they dinned first. And in the end the food was so delicious that I couldn’t think of a single complaint, although I think some of the others may have. Of course I love the food here, but the portions are small enough so that I doubt I shall gain any weight. If I could get used to this it would be an ideal compromise between good flavors and healthy living. That and exercise and I think I’d be in very good shape after a short while. Of course, when I get back home I’m sure this inclination will fade and I will gradually be submerged into my ordinary routines and habits. Most likely. Darn it.
Musings in Vinon du Verdun
The culture in France seems strangely devoid of the “fast food” concept. It is a gentle rolling lifestyle here. Everyone looks healthy, genuine, happy, and light hearted. I have yet to see so much as a frown (though I have seen many serious looking French people, it does not appear that they are burdened by oppressive anxieties, but rather they are in between humorous thoughts and have no need to affect any other expression). How strangely beautiful it all is. I am wondering why, how even, this could be. I suppose that perhaps it possible that the language itself, with all of it’s poetic freedom, has given the people of France a beautiful ease which may not be so much as possible in English speaking countries. It seems like an enchanted realm. The land of Provence is washed in perpetual waves of beatific light. The people intuitively comprehend the extremely high cost of so-called advancement. They shun it for the sake of beauty. As well they should. Ah, but I shall be sad to leave.
June 29, 2001
This morning I woke up early to catch some dawn photographs of the Hotel Olivier. The lighting and colors were lovely. After a rich breakfast of cheeses, fresh breads, croissants and meats, we departed from the charming hotel on our journey back to Nice by way of the magnificent Gorges de Verdun.
Moustier
Ste. Marie
As our massive bus made the long curve around the end of a wide green lake dotted with boats we spotted the head of the Gorge itself, with it’s massive mouth defended by a huge tooth of mountain aspiring toward the heavens. Not far off is the town of Moustier Ste. Marie. We arrived in good time to amble about the town at leisure. Once upon a time pilgrims used to come here to this village on a special journey. There is a tiny church way up high on a rocky crag. To this church they would go on their knees (something which I find difficult to imagine, really) in order to pray at the shrine for their handicapped children. We took the trek through the beautiful town up to the shrine. It was no mean feat to make it up there, with my leg as it was, at any rate. When we arrived I made my prayers and thanks to the Almighty and afterwards took a few discrete pictures. Within the church is a large attractively adorned alter and exquisite stained glass windows. Very pretty. But the view from the portico of the ancient church is what one would make that climb for, in my opinion. It is stunning in the third degree.
Then, goat like, Jean Jacques lead us “down” the mountain by another route, which actually went UP the mountain for quite a ways. At first I was alarmed, and thought perhaps his English had been mixed up and he actually mean to climb far up to the very peak of the cliff which would, I think, have been quite the end of me. Fortunately, the path soon turned downward and we were safely back in the village buying lovely smelling fruits and vegetables and foods for our picnic later in the day.
The local markets there, by the way, are the very best I’ve ever seen. Everything is laid out neatly and beautifully and the people are not in a mad mob-like rush at all. Everyone is quite friendly and you can see people smiling and laughing where ever you turn. It’s quite remarkable, really.
Musings in Moustier Ste. Marie
If I sin against the Almighty, then I pray that he forgives me, and I shall trust in Him to guide my every footstep as it says we should do in Scripture. I remember His Mercy, and recall to mind that I owe Him my fealty, respect and love, with apologies for my sins, and my thankful gratitude for all the good I have received in my lifetime. I am not ashamed of my faith, but know in my heart that despite the world’s condemnation, because of it, grace upholds me.
The Increadible Gorges du Verdun
Along a treacherous looking, snaking ribbon of road we traveled
in our gargantuan bus, pushing every opposing car backwards and out of our way
as we went. My imagination was afire with fantasies of fatal collapses and
ruinous descents into the far distant depths of the Gorges du Verdun. Finally I decided that of all places on
earth wherein I might perish, this 
place
would be without a doubt the most beautiful. Having determined this, I gave up
on my fears and enjoyed the view, which was nothing less than spectacular. Truly.
Eventually we came to our picnic destination, a fantastical place called the Point Sublime. Across the deep gorge we were faced by the spectacle of a massive divide in the cliffs where the tectonic forces of the ages had heaved up mountains of stratified stone into swirling twisting patterns much to large to fathom. Deep below us tinkled an exceedingly green river. There at the very edge looking down over the precipice was inspirational. The entire scene was gorgeous, and I am quite convinced the very word itself may well come from this place.
Lunch, by the way, was excellent. Jean Jacques discovered for us a wonderfully shady spot in a bit of pine where we could all sit leisurely together and dine on a bed of pine needles. The air was fragrant, the breeze was cool, and we were all in good spirits. For lunch I ate a quarter leg of roast chicken (something I had been craving since my arrival) some lovely herb seasoned olives, a bit of Camembert cheese, a half a baguette and drank sparkling Perrier. Aahh.
After lunch we hit the road and after a long winding journey came to the next village at the far end of the gorge, which is named Castile. At the very peak of an gigantic cliff overlooking the village is a massive church. Up to the church is a thin line in the cliff face which marks an improbable looking stairway carved in stone for the parishioners to climb on Sunday mornings for services. One can only imagine that this must be the healthiest and most vigorous congregation in the world. In any event we did not stop at the town, but kept on traveling toward Nice.
Return to Nice
Now I am back in Nice at the far end of the open air market
beneath the rich yellows and reds of the cliff-side churches and buildings
which are glowing in the softening light of the setting sun. It is quite
beautiful. If I could only speak French fluently so that I might meet the
lovely French women sitting all around me then I would 
certainly
be in Paradise! Try as I might, the
only sentences I know in French have to do with trains, prices and toilets. And
of course the one French Pickup line that my friend from Brittainy taught me
before I came to France the first time: “Je suis un grand chapeax avec
fromage.”, which in case you don’t know means, “I am a big hat with cheese”. He
thought that was quite funny, but the French girls don’t seem to think so. I
can’t imagine why. Actually, I have not
really bothered to try it out. I really
should, just for laughs, but…
In any event, the view is perfect. The weather is perfect. The café au lait is perfect. I am in a heavenly state.
The night life in Nice is a wonderful medley of outdoor restaurants open til the wee hours, street performers and wandering lovers and tourists mingling along the avenues. The pace is serene without being dull. One is simply transported to a different world here. I spent the evening strolling, sipping, writing and working on Elthos. I couldn’t possibly be more content.
As a point of interest, some people viewing my pictures of the journey may be curious as to how it is that many of the photographs I’ve taken seem to have no people in them, which might give some the impression that I had these places all to myself. Believe me, however, nothing could be further from the truth. The fact is this was simply a matter of fabulous luck, or stern patience to wait until the scene was momentarily clear, sometimes an event that lasted for a fraction of a second. In other cases careful cropping or even an occasional retouching has been handy where a shadow or wire disgraced the perfection of the scene.
In the evening I met with Amy, Jean Jacques, Sheril, and Elaine for drinks. We stayed out quite late. In the end I did not go to sleep until 2pm. What a wonderful city.
June 30, 2001
The Perfumes of Fragonard
Being exhausted when I woke up early for breakfast I made the delirious decision to join the group for a trip to the Fragonard Perfume factory, and then a walk around the peninsula. I was so not ready for this. But in any event I made the journey and wound up having the opportunity to buy a perfume for my mother, which I know she will adore. We also received a free sample which I think will make a nice gift for my friend Cynthia back at the office. So it was worthwhile.
By the Pool at Cap-Ferrat
Then the group trudged off for the walk. I myself stayed behind with Amie. As it happened he stopped the bus to wait for the group in front of nothing less than the fabulous Grand-Hotel du Cap-Ferrat. There is no mistaking that this is the haunt of the incredibly wealthy. Rolls Royces habitually line up in front of the main entrance. There was one there when we arrived. Ahh, now this was a good idea. Amie and I walked down to the hotel to get a cup of café au lait, and after a brief moment of difficulty with the staff I convinced the staff members (I think) that there would be no problem for he and I to sit at the bar next to the pool and sip coffees. There was some confusion about how to pay, but in the end things worked out and down we went along the gorgeous path toward the pool. There we found a palatial bar with semi naked beauties sun bathing by the pool side. I thought that I had found paradise before, but I was clearly mistaken. This is paradise.
Finally, mercifully (since I was really quite sleepy), we returned to Nice were I was compelled to pass out for a couple of hours. Then a shower and I was ready for the evening’s festivities. One frozen drink later, and I chanced to meet Amy on one of the avenues as she was drifting by. We went for a drink at an outdoor café, which of course was quite pleasant.
Farewell Dinner in Nice
Now it was finally time for dinner. We all arrived at the restaurant which looked very nice from the outside, but surprisingly, the food within was actually, well, not very good, really. The chicken dish was rather a bit over cooked. I noticed that few people had cleaned their plates. But the wine was acceptable, the salad was nice, and the company was terrific. So one poor meal in 30 is not a bad rate, I’d say. And of course, we all had a good time talking about out adventures and how wonderful France really is and how much we enjoyed the journey.
This evening I am spending quietly reflecting on my travels and writing. I am feeling, I must admit, a little touch of the blues, as tomorrow is the flight home, and well… alas…
July 1, 2001
The Long Flight Home
Having
stayed up quite late saying farewell to France and my companions, I woke up at precisely 7:30am, which was a minor miracle considering that the hotel
completely forgot to put through our requested wake up calls, again as a result
I imagine, of the French “way of things”.
I hope I am not being unfair in my assessment, but it does seem like
that to me. Things of this sort are
simply of little consequence to the French people. However, this easily could have resulted in missed flights as
Jean Jacques was already on his way to Paris by then, and no one was there to
look out for us. But as is often the
case things turned out well, I had a superb breakfast, said good bye to those
who I could say good bye to, and onto the bus we trundled. The lesson one should take from this is
simple: Bring a batter or wind up clock
with you to France. Off to the airport.
I was very sad to be leaving France. I really had the blues. With the beauty of the land, the people, the food, the wine, the history, it’s such a lovely country. How soon can I return?
Au revoir,
Nice. Mai la beauté de votre terre,
de votre nourriture, et de vos graceous personnes vivent pour toujours.
As a seemingly final blow to my flagging spirits we landed in Frankford, Germany for a five hour layover. Unbelievable. Oh well, I decided to try to make the best of it.
So, not to be put out of commission, and certainly not to forget all that I had learned in France, I quickly found the cutest girl in the airport and began a happy little conversation with her. She let me take a picture of her, which I thought came out very nice. She is from Spain, and speaks a tiny bit of English and fairly fluent French. Between the two of us we managed to while away the time together conversing in an odd combination of English French Latin and Spanish. But she was very nice, and it made all the difference for my flight home. I begin to wonder if Spain might not make a good destination for my next adventure over seas.
And so, we boarded the gigantic Lufthansa in Frankfort, finally, and flew the long flight beyond the final coast of Europe and out over the Atlantic on our way back to America.
It was an unforgettable journey. This story is my little way of saying Thank You to the French people, to Jean Jacques, to Amy, to Amie, the wonderful people on the tour, and to GoAhead Vacations for an absolutely wonderful time.
Thank you!
Musings on the Plane Home
Perhaps when I return to America I can retain something of the French “way of things”. I suspect my entire life would be so much better for it if I can. I will most certainly try. And in the end, perhaps it will happen that I shall import from France something of their delightful culture, something of their light hearted humor, something of their commitment to beauty, something of their everlasting Amor.
Notes
The order of events in my journal may be slightly blurred. It’s funny how events can so easily blend in with one another when you are traveling in a foreign country seeing and doing so many new things. I am very glad I took the time to write down as much as I did, otherwise I imagine the entire trip would seem much more like a dream, and I might not ever remember all of the wonderful things I saw and did there.
Photography
With the exception of the images of Agrippa and Petrarch (courtesy of www.britainica.com) all photographs were taken by myself with a Sony DSC S75.
Bibliography
All Italic sections in quotes were gleaned from http://www.britannica.com/
© Mark Abrams, July 2001, All Rights Reserved