Long Cool Bug

Two feet below my nose is a long black bug - like a stretch-limo fly - strolling around on a plant. The bug - iridescent blue and pinched at the waist - can walk around upside down as well as it can right side up. It is possibly the first time in my life I have ever seen such a bug, but I don't think I can remember every bug I've ever seen. It's a cool bug, not the kind that suddenly leaps into my face or chews up my plants. A Johnny Depp bug. A bug, pure and simple.

What strikes me about the bug is that it is going along living its bug life whether I have ever seen it before or not, whether I know what it's called or not.  That I don't understand its life or what it is called doesn't affect the bug.  I watch it, don't feel a need to kill, swat, whack or torment it. I realize that it's teaching me something.

Sometimes I wonder what other people think of me, how they see me, how I affect them.  I even get a little anxious about it now and again.  If they tell me how they feel, I usually believe them, but sometimes I even wonder about that, too.  I actually do things at times so that the person I'm with will approve of me, like me better or think I'm cool. I've probably never been cool, especially since I loved to go to the library and read magazines and books during my spare time at school, and I never jumped off of high places with bungee cords tied to my ankles.  So, being an uncool and quiet person, I wonder what people think of me at times. It has never done me any good to care.

It seems not to matter to the bug. The bug is living a casual bug's routine life regardless of what I think of it or not. I think it's pretty freeing not to care, to be bug-like. I know this begs the question: What if I kill the bug?  Shouldn't it be more concerned?  Maybe.  It doesn't seem to notice me, up in the air above it, 3,000 times bigger than it is, capable of annihilating it.

I have been known to fret a lot about these kinds of things. Does he love me?  Did they like me?  Was I nice enough, smart enough? Did I impress them?  I think that when I just stop caring and become oblivious to judgements by others, I get to the point of being able to walk on a leaf up side down.  Or the human equivalent of that.  I am more likely to reach my potential if I pay attention to what my heart and mind are telling me, pay attention to the truth of the matter, when I walk my walk unconcerned, right side up or up side down.

Just Sayin'

Some people begin life on a dazzling trajectory that never sags into swamps of disappointment or dejection, but most of us swerve and falter a few times once we are shot out of life's cannon.  Things go haywire, we get hurt or sick, we lose loved ones or bad guys really seem to be winning.  Life hurts sometimes.

I've heard that you attract to you that which you believe most sincerely.  I don't know if I'm so convinced this is true.  What I believe is that stuff happens and you had better figure out what to do about it so that you can live on.  And you have to help other people out.  You just do.

I used to be naive and then I became a nurse.  Lots of bad things happen to really good people and lots of good things happen to criminals.  That's the weird thing about life.  Kids get hurt. Old ladies who have done nothing but good all their lives get whacked and then what? Crooks rip people off and nothing seems to happen to them.  Can we really attribute mayhem and chaos to anything but fate?  I don't believe we can.  But I do believe in the goodness of people, or at least the potential for good in people.

The odd thing is I don't not believe in God.  I just don't believe God (or the creative force of the universe) is vengeful or plans things in terms of reward or punishment.  Fate is fate and if you are in line to slip on a banana peel, you have to figure out how to get up.  And I believe that life is better if we lend a hand to others instead of walking past.

It's pretty obvious we're all in this together, and that brings up such mixed images in my mind that I could just scream sometimes.  Then, I think of everything that dazzles and inspires me that people have done and dreamed of, and I want to cheer.
I am not yet a cynical, disappointed, formerly hopeful person.  Too much about life is mysterious and stunning to be cynical. Just sayin', I'm looking ahead, avoiding banana peels to the extent that I can and relieved there are good people in this world.  That's all.  Just sayin'.

Adjusting to Summer Cold

It's really summer now.  Wherever you are, the weather is wrapping itself around you in its own special way. Here, where the  western edge of the Northern Hemisphere is also called California, nothing unusual is going on. No tornadoes, no blazing fires borne on high-speed winds, and no humidity. The nothingness of our summer has settled in.  Come here. Take a break from all that extreme stuff and cool off for a while. We love visitors, especially ones with red sweaty faces and puffy ankles who live in inland areas where it's so darned hot.  I think I remember heat.  And sunshine.  Round bright thing in the sky, right?

I try to explain why we get this gray fog all summer on the coast. Sometimes I make some sense as I try to explain low pressure and high pressure, cold ocean and inland heat. There's no denying that we wear sweaters in the summer and that only ten miles away (6 k for my readers outside the US), the heat is much more noticeable and the summer much more, um, summery.  I have to go there for a summer-weather fix because it sure doesn't come here.

When I was a small child growing up in Carmel Valley - 12 miles inland from Carmel - I was content to remain right where I was. When I looked west in the afternoons, I could see a hideous gray wall of engulfing fog, a misery that made no sense to go near. I spent my summers shoeless and in the pool, chlorinated and tan. The fog bank caused, and of course still causes, an afternoon wind to pick up in inland valleys, but we were protected from it by a weather ceiling that lifted about 6 miles from Carmel in the area called Farm Center (a local's name for a small shopping center).

"Do you kids want to go with me to Carmel today?" my mother would ask entreatingly.

"NO!!!!" would come the instant yell from five throats.  No way, too awful, cold and gray.  I'd always end up shivering and having to wear two layers of clothes at the beach.  Beaches were for idiots as far as I knew, idiots who liked sand fleas, kelp and 50 degree water. I did not buy into the idea that girls wore bikinis to beaches anywhere. It was a lie.

So, here I am living in a place like Carmel, but not as precious as it is or self-indulgent, and I am wrapped in a cold gray expanse of featureless weather all summer long.  Sometimes I can't wait for the summer to pass; it's never short enough now.

So the real question is:  Why do I live here if the summers are so miserable?  I'm making a list of pros and cons, and the cons are starting to make more sense - at least in the summer.  The rest of the year?  That's a different story.

Getting Going

Get out of bed, walk to the kitchen, reach for a coffee mug and fill it with hot coffee. Sit down. Get up again and use bathroom, blow nose, inspect sleep-worn face. Nothing new. Walk back to the kitchen, retrieve coffee mug. Still hot, dear liquid.

Read thin morning paper, growl at sports editor, never prints relevant information about local swimmers, certainly none about the best coaches or team in the area. Whose fault is that? Stare out of window and give the stink eye to the frisky and well-fed crow lining up his rear end over cute little car parked down below on the street. The crow flies away, does not splatter the car this time.

Back to the sports page. Young Irish kid kills the US Open more dead than when Tiger killed it years ago. Phenomenal. Phelps loses 200 Fly by a hundredth. He's tired, not tapered. He'll be a different swimmer in Shanghai. Lots of foreign swimmers at the meet. Aussies, Canadians, Koreans, Mexicans. How many train in the US? Young Canadian team trained here a few weeks ago and then elite group prepping for the meet swam here for three days, long course. Seem to have done well. I want to swim. Can't. Have a cold. Have to get well. Sigh.

Read the weather report.  Sun today, patchy sun tomorrow, decreasing temperatures over the course of the week. Gotta get out into the sun and daylight today. Sun does not make itself known often enough during the summertime on California's central coast.  Read the horoscope:  "Pisces, you may or may not have someone important to deal with today. Best let events unfold before you make any judgements about them. Tonight: Be yourself."  Be myself. Get up and refill coffee mug, get out two pieces of sourdough whole wheat bread. Chew on them, bit by bit. Toast would hurt throat too much. Plain is better. Look for potato chips. Damn, no potato chips. Need salt, need a healthy throat and no more cold. Being sick is the pits.

Make oatmeal. Irish oatmeal, coarse and real. Add honey and a dab of butter. Good with coffee. Nice coffee. Check emails on iPhone. Must answer some soon. Note to self: Remember things.

Clear table, fill sink, squirt dish soap, wash dishes. Grandma did this. Remember the little dish set, a gift as a child, pretending to wash dishes and arranging them this way and that. Bubbles in iridescent mounds that pop softly and reflect the ceiling light, swirling pink and blue glazing them before they explode into exclamation points of wet surprise.

Go out to garden wearing gloves and crocs, carry small trimming clippers. The roses need dead-heading, the alyssum look stressed, and the bougainvillea just will not come into color. Bracts are not forming, looks diseased once again. Time to kill it? Try to revive it again? Stand and water, wipe sweat off face. A horse does not sweat this much; it is not human to resemble a faucet when standing still on a tepid morning.

Pull weeds, haul hose around yard, water all the pots. Riots of color, lots of pruning coming due soon. Plan it, get it done. Sun's overhead, nearly summer solstice. Fine day so far. Sepia memory, dainty curtains over French windows. Willow tree over lawn and sleepy cats stretching, rearranging paws and dusty fur, claws extended and then retracted languidly, sleep overcoming them again. That summer. A brother and three sisters, banging doors, wind chimes tinkling like today. The beginning of something unforeseen and dark.

Kick off crocs, put away gardening tools, squint at sun on flowers, hose snarled in the yard. Fix it later. Fix it later.

Back to the bathroom, use more Kleenex, drink more liquid, time to rest. Small sounds barely heard. Sound is more noticed when it is absent than when it is present, when it is so familiar and so gentle. Open laptop, hear Mac opening chord, read more emails, think about writing. No good. Nothing. Think of exercises learned at writers' retreat. Interrupt own thinking with impulse to get a snack. So that's it. That's the pattern. Fall into the lull, the mental switch from deliberate thinking to free flow.  Or not.  If there's room for writing, writing can happen.

Notice crows cawing outside, glance out window and see crow above cute little car again, aiming. Don't look. Just clean up the mess later, park somewhere else. Devil bird.

Picasso at the DeYoung Museum

I went to the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco on Sunday.  That's not really my point, but that's where I'll start.

I went to see the Picasso exhibit.  It's a timid approach to a very forceful subject:  A man who was a force of nature by the look of it.  

Picasso lived for a long time, 94 years I believe, a life span that started when cars were barely known to the world and ended after there were rockets transporting human beings into outer space.  He was artistically productive, kind of an understatement when you learn of his tremendous output and fascination with the purpose and meaning of art throughout his life.  What usually distinguishes Picasso in the minds of semi-art-literate people like me is his frequent depictions of subjects whose features look unintelligible and challenging, not beautiful.

I got to the museum with my companions, gained entry to the first gallery and put on my Audio Tour headphones and began to learn about the man and his art.  I exited the museum with new appreciation for his artistic viewpoint and his drive to change the way we see things. I felt like I'd entered a vortex, a black hole of artistic energy wherein Picasso had existed and stood his ground in the face of all the powers of god and nature and sucked them dry, painting the encounters or sculpting them. The body of work he left is powerful, moody, intense and thought provoking. Don't tell me it isn't.  He provokes your mind no matter who you are.  You may not like it, but he pricks you and you remember the wound.

What struck me about the things I learned about Picasso was his persistent ability and drive to depict his subjects as many things at once, to use them as prompts for our - the observer's - ability to perceive and connect ideas. African masks especially were huge sparks of his creative imagination, connecting him to the spirit world, changing dimensions of time and space and movement. His wife and lovers who were his muses at various times in his life took on various forms and colors depending on the political, social or emotional state of his life.

Underlying all the layers of meaning, metaphor and symbolism was one man's intellect attempting to understand the visible and invisible worlds we live in. He was driven to reach the most essential, most distilled concepts of death, love, war, time and immortality and express those ideas visually.

Many people have one good idea in their lives or none at all.  They just exist.  Most of us have a few quick thoughts that come and go. We have mild friendships, stay mostly out of trouble and try pretty hard not to rock the boat.  Picasso was a man possessed with the idea of not only rocking the boat but showing us all sides of the boat at once, its nuances, its meaning in spiritual terms, how it had once been a tree and had been shaped by hands and tools, how it feels, how the water splashes against its sides, how it sounds when the oars creak as we row.  All that in one complicated, deconstructed and reconstructed image.  Over and over a few thousand times.  When you get that Picasso was trying to do all that in his best works, you get Picasso.

But, as he said, and as is true for all creative effort, what we see as we stand in front of a painting or a photograph or hear in a concert hall is what the artist was wrestling with at that moment.  Now he or she has moved on.  We trail behind in the wake of their efforts, way behind. In the case of Pablo Picasso, he has moved on, but the enormous number of prints, images, canvases and forms that remained behind at his death provide an overwhelmingly complicated trail that shows where his mind went throughout his life and the huge scope of his creative energy.  It's a wonder any of his peers remained standing once he left the room.  I think we'll be reeling in his wake for a long time to come.

Return From France: It's All A Blur

I arrive home and can't tell what day it is anymore. Could be Saturday, but most likely it's Sunday. Local time is 2 a.m., says the clock, but that hardly means a thing.  I am tired, feeling like I have half my body in today and the other in both yesterday and tomorrow. It's a weird feeling of mistaken identity, only it's the identification of time, not myself.

I sleep like a rock, have complicated dreams about a lumpy, convoluted city with steep streets and tunneled roadways that are cave-like at their entry points but that end up going up the sides of buildings. A small girl in a dress keeps running away from me, but there is no fear and no sadness. I feel curious and bewildered. It's all a blur.

I wake up at 7 a.m. and know for certain I am in Provence, but I am also in Paris. I don't smell the croissants baking yet, so I go back to sleep. It's a cycle that repeats itself three more times, a constant yo-yo-ing back and forth between France and California. I am nowhere and I am here, all at once.

Finally I awaken and remain awake. I try a cup of coffee and it doesn't help. I feel exactly as if I've had a glass of wine and I should sit down to a good dinner. The house is fine, I unpack things and move from room to room, sometimes with intention and other times in a state of suspended animation.

This is the oddest part about travel, the loss of a sense of place and urgency. I enjoy the latter, but I wonder what I would do if an emergency arose. I might just smile and toast it with my glass of wine.  Only, it's a cup of coffee and I have to go to work in a few hours.  Bad planning!

I removed myself from my own culture and time frame, left for two weeks, changed all points of reference, and then wedged myself back into my own life again. I hear about a friend who has suffered a serious illness, another friend who has gone on sick leave and natural disasters potentially affecting friends in other parts of the country, but I feel detached and as if I am floating like a helium balloon.  I wonder how military soldiers can possibly assimilate after being at war for several seasons in a land where no one speaks their language and they are faced with guns, fear and intense stress.  I have no comprehension.  I have simply been on vacation to a first-world country for two weeks and I am this disoriented? What happened?

France crooked her finger to me and whispered in my ear.  I am not the same anymore.  As usual, travel has changed me, exactly the reason I travel. Gradually, all my molecules will reassemble and coalesce again, and I will feel more grounded and competent to face the ups and downs of ordinary life, but the memories of this two-week exit into a parallel universe called France will now be part of me, too. I can already tell they are influencing my habits and patterns around the house and my town. I am returning gradually and steadily, but will I still fit into the slot I fit into before?

Au Revoir Paris and France

Out the door, into the little Peugeot, down the lane after a wave au revoir to Canto Cigalo. This is a travel day. The rain is back and the day is dark, the sun on its own vacation somewhere. We have given ourselves some time to get to destinations without having to rush. This is a good thing because when we arrive at le gare TGV (TGV train station) we cannot figure out where to return our rental car. We don't know what the phrase is or the international symbol associated with it.

Up one dead end, around a roundabout out of the station grounds, back again, reverse, pause, crane necks, search info on rental car packet. No luck. Then, one sign with 10 different signs and symbols on it has a tiny one in English. Delight! We zoom over and then have to figure out where to put the car. "Park it here? in the Hertz area? Don't they need to clean it?"

The rental car office, the one we used seven days ago, is a dream to use. Up the stairs to the long futuristic station to find our train departure time. These buggers are on time, so we have to be in place and ready. A delicatessan has prepared sandwiches and snacks; we purchase water and two baguette sandwiches. Then we join the clump of waiting passengers who need info from the departure schedule. The train number and time is known; we don't know which gate.

Once we know what platform to use, we ascend the escalator and wait in what we believe is the right area. We watch the French travelers give each other bises on the cheeks when they greet. Left, right left, with little kiss sounds. A customary ritual that ensures you are definitely fond of this person.

The time arrives for the train to come. There it is! We go the car that the train diagram tells us is ours. Wrong. The conductor is blowing her whistle and rain is falling. How do you say shit in French? merde. One way or another we trot like mad to get to the right car and make it just in time. They don't wait for you if you're late. The train is on time, the sleek, smooth bastard. It's admirable but intimidating.

I crash into my seat and heave a sigh. Then, the train is moving like I'm only imagining it - hardly any change in my sensation of it - and we are bound for Paris. While munching our baguettes and water, Provence is out there beyond the windows. As we travel due north, we see the rolling terrain, distant mountains and old medieval villages on cliff tops and promontories. Most if not all villages are not sprawling urban areas. Instead they are clumps of stone buildings gathered together, surrounded by agriculture. Only Avignon and Paris have looked familiarly sprawling compared to American towns and habitations.

We are in Paris again at the Gare du Lyon. The train does not rush us this time and we trundle out to the taxi stand where a hustler directs people to this waiting taxi or that, loudly demanding, "Coins, give me coins! Obama! Hollywood, America! Give me coins! Come here, I put your bag inside and you give me coins."

We hand the tall young black taxi driver our address and he has to look it up. We have to cross town and find the Montmartre area. He is silent but calm and a good driver. That is, he makes his own lanes and turns when he wants to, nosing his little car in front of other vehicles to create space for us. I watch the city's thousands of varied people out on their Saturday business. The part of Paris we traverse including the Bastille is more homogenized, more like New York, less elegant and used hard. I wish I could record the city sounds including the music from other cars when we are stopped next to them. The ride is a series of vignettes of city life, and I am as anonymous as they are, those people I will never see again that I know of.

We ascend into the Montmartre area, the hill of martyrs so named because during the French Revolution a few people died for the cause, leaders with great spirit and a cause they had decided to fight for. This is where the moulins are, the picturesque windmills as you might have seen in Moulin Rouge, because this used to be the hilly countryside outside the city.

After we check in, rest and relax for a little while - it's about 5 PM - we walk up to Sacre Coeur cathedral and encounter masses of tourists, a county fair atmosphere and join it. This is the place we became engaged four years ago, so we are returning for old time's sake, sort of.

Inside the cathedral, Mass is in progress even as throngs of tourists are pouring in and skirting the central area so they can see the interior. We sit and listen to the priest and a nun who sings part of the Mass. Then, back out to the moving, shifting crowd, which we watch for a little while. We shop for gifts at a few of the junk shops that line the main cobbled street in the village area. Probably all from China by the looks of it. Then, we decide to eat at the same cafe where we were engaged. The food is mediocre just like it was four years ago, but we watch the crowd and talk. I hear lots of Italian and American English, some other languages. This is not an elegant crowd at all but more of what you'd see at any large event, kind of disheveled, uncertain, strolling in zig-zag directions.

We walk after dinner down to the north side of the hill into the cool, jazzy Montmartre neighborhood where no tourists think to go unless they've read their guide books and want a less touristed experience. It's hilly but shaded with large chestnut trees and the evening sun is getting exciting for photography.

We go back up the hill and over to the steps of Sacre Coeur and see Paris in a broad panorama, an encrustation of stone buildings with clay chimney tubes sticking up like spines all across the city. The setting sun has brought the buildings into sharp relief and it is immense. There is Notre Dame and over there the Pantheon. The Eiffel Tower is hidden behind a group of trees to the right.

It's a long wait before the lights begin to glow in the city, well after 10 PM, but it is a transition unique in the world. To see the City of Lights like this is fun. The crowd continues to shift and move, party and enjoy the balmy evening. This is the world as Europe knows it now, multicultural and changing fast with the influx of African nations' emigres. Languages of all types and people who are obviously tourists like us gazing at the scene, all mixing in a peaceful mob.

That's enough. We are tired. It's nearly 11 PM. Paris is not going to quiet down for several hours, but we must. Good-bye old city. Tomorrow we travel home to California and begin to dream of new travels in the year to come.  It has been a rich experience and valuable to us both in quiet, inner ways. This will take time to process and return from, like all journeys. We have been fortunate, truly so. In truth, the journey is continuous and has certain demarcation points, one day after another. What will today bring?

The Heart of Provence

This is the last day we have in Provence, so we set out to lose ourselves in the heart of it. We map a route that will take us to three little villages, three of 150 designated most beautiful villages in France, according to our little map. (We are using a map supplied by the Tourist Information Office, a Michelin map of France, the Michelin Guide for Provence and sometimes the Lonely Planet Provence guide book.)

We are pretty fond of roundabouts as we drive here and there. They are very forgiving of mistakes; you can zoom around and around until you figure out which exit to take. I wish life were like that. Make a bad job choice? Just go in a big circle until you find a good exit. No dead ends. Just flow without stopping.

The day is soggy. Provence is not as cold as yesterday, but it is draped in mist. There is not much traffic.  We are looking for Menerbes, and the roads gradually become narrower and prettier until we are essentially in another world of leafy aromatic forests that shade the road and reveal pretty scenes at every turn. I have a feeling of being enveloped by time itself as if drawn to the center of it, unable to resist.  

Menerbes is the area in the Petite Luberon area east of Cavaillon and St. Remy where Peter Mayle, the author of “A Year In Provence” lived. It has been home to significant artists and writers  and seems blessed with every aspect of attractive life that human beings are capable of imagining. 

As is true with nearly every old village dating back to medieval times and beyond, there is a vertical cliff topped by a church with a bell tower and steeple. The streets curve up and down, around corners and divide into narrow cobbled alleys. Stores are fitted into the old buildings. We find a nearly hidden stone stairway that winds up and around to the top of the hill where a 15th century church stands ready to take in all sinners and heal them.

We can see the Luberon valleys on both sides of the hill, spread like a quilt  made of vineyards, olive groves and  windbreaks made up of tall closely planted chestnut trees and mulberries. Mist hangs like soft veils at the flanks of the hills in the distance. The air is still. I can smell rosemary, roses, jasmine and other herbs on the cool morning air. I am smitten with this place. It is perfect.  

We keep heaving sighs and our pace is slow; photography and a deep need to absorb the essence of where we are require that we not rush. Eventually, we do leave, but it is with a lot of reluctance. 

The next village is Lourmarin, a distance from Menerbes of about 15 k. The drive is winding, crazy and beautiful. The side of the road has a low stone wall to guard it, and it’s broken in some spots. Evidence of someone flying off the curves in speeding cars? 

There are a few indecipherable signs we've seen. For instance, one sign is simply an exclamation point with no words on it.  When you arrive in a village or town, you see the town name, as you would expect. When you leave, you see the town name again, but it has a red hash mark through it, as if it has been deleted. Speed bumps meant to slow traffic are sometimes nothing but a six-inch-high pad of hard rubber stretched across our lane.  Mysteries abound.  We must be detectives as we drive in this French-speaking country, relating our past experience to what is likely to be expected here. 

In Lourmarin, we notice an extensive repaving project is underway that uses attractive modern bricks of different colors being laid as street surface. A workman in a tall building right at the entrance area is blaring loud Euro pop, incongruous with the 800 year-old village structures and setting. 

It’s past midday, and our bellies are talking to us, so we look around in the main village streets for a place to eat. The restaurant we choose is trendy, busy and costs 14 euro for a delicious and unusually tender steak, warm potatoes creamed with cheese, butter and herbs and an arugula salad lightly dressed. Again, I nearly lick my plate. The ever-present baguette slices are given on the side. No butter. Who needs it after all that? 

The place is packed and abuzz with conversation, but, as usual, it is impossible to hear anyone’s words. We are flanked, bistro style, on both sides by tables of French people and cannot hear what they are saying. This is something I have noticed among the French in restaurants. They contain themselves and their words. They really have mastered the art of having “quiet indoor voices.” Of course, I am not able to understand fluent French very well, but still...

Lourmarin is a sterling little village in which streets are lined with artistic and creative boutiques of all sorts. There are three bell towers, and there is a 15th century chateau we tour. It has four floors with a winding stone staircase between each floor. It was found in ruins in 1920 by a wealthy businessman who restored it and then died five years later. His will stipulated that young people be educated in music and art there. We hear musicians practicing for a performance coming up in a week, a pleasing backdrop of sound as we look at furniture and fixtures in the building that date back about 200 years. 

More sighing, gazing at leafy loveliness, picturesque windows and doors, tall crooked walls, laughing that even waste containers seem charming. We are dazzled and silly with the charm of these places.

And yet, we must move on. More driving in leafy green countryside and then we arrive at Ansouis where we pass up another tour of the chateau there and simply walk around the town. “Around” means up and down, mostly up, until we find the church topping the village, built 800 years ago. Its stone paving inside is curving and worn, the interior silent but still echoing with the songs and prayers of humanity. I feel as though I am one little being in a long chain through time out of mind. It is a place thick with old spirits and unknown events and tragedies as well as joys.  

After a winding drive home along the Durance River through the Petite Luberon area, we return to our little hotel, Canto Cigalo. The rain abated a few hours ago. The world seems refreshed and lush. After 7 pm, we make the quick drive into town and find two seats at La Cantina, an Italian pizza bistro on the main street. It is jumping with business already. I have a very delectable and satisfying gnocchi dressed in a cream sauce with herbs. Panna cotta is light as air with its raspberry sauce drizzled on top. 

We walk into the old heart of San Remy after dinner and I find my favorite scene: A plaza that fronts the Musee des Alpilles. It is a marble-paved square with trees  planted to shade it, and there are lights from a cafe shining on its surface.  It is quiet and beautiful. I am standing on a street that is a mosaic of broken pieces of white stone and there is a narrow gutter that flows with water down its center, curving away around two or three corners until it disappears from view under archways and beyond doors leading to places I will never see.  It is mysterious, familiar and foreign and brings up an ache in my heart; I am in love with it.  It is so simple a place and yet says everything about Provence and France to me. I hate to leave it and look at it hard so I will never forget it. This is what I will bring home, what I will know about this little square:  It is simply itself, unpretentious but still touched with whimsy. It looks timeless, as if it will become sepia toned as I look at it. It only needs music to be perfect, but that is what I can add; music will play when I recall it years from now.  

St. Remy de Provence: Marche', Musee, Monastere

The sun has left Provence. The air is chilled by a chugging cold wind. We don't know what to think and ask the monsieur at the desk of our hotel what to expect. He shrugs, sends his lower lip out and raises his eyebrows - all this indicates, "Who knows," but in a way that also indicates we are all in the dark and will just have to wait and see.

After our petite dejeuner including delectable grapefruit and ginger preserves to spread on our bread, we regroup in our room, make a plan for the first part of the day and emerge into a blast of cold air from the front salon of the hotel. It sure looks like rain. But, I feel optimistic after my breakfast, and I want to see our little town, St. Remy. 

The plan is to enjoy market day in St. Remy. Similar to the market in Isle sur la Sorgue on Saturday, this market occupies many winding streets in the heart of old town. Scarves are selling well; it's really cold when the wind gusts hard. 

We buy cherries, apricots, bread, candied peanuts and some gifts. Vendors look chilled, and they are gritting their teeth, hoping for brisk business to take their minds off their discomfort. A few are ready to bolt for the warm interiors of bistros or wherever home is. We duck into a cafe and warm up with an espresso. Back to the market for one more look.

The stalls are a riot of color, hands reaching back and forth across piles of olives or heaps of fruit. In the market streets, the crowd is dense, alert for deals, restless in its quest for goods and good prices. The young man selling candied peanuts speaks with me in halting English, asking me where I am from. His mother smiles but looks embarrassed for not speaking much English herself. 

"Thirty years, New York. I was," she waves her hand over her shoulder. "Good," she also says. "He is pretty good English, very good English." She is trying, and I am trying to speak French. We agree that the weather is misbehaving badly, uncharacteristically, and we wish each other bonne journee. Then I am on my way. 

The rain has begun, but now we are in our car again driving to the Monastere St-Paul du Mausole, an ancient monastery where Vincent Van Gogh stayed for a year after cutting his ear off. While he was at the monastery, which was built in order to treat the mentally ill beginning in the 1500s, he was able to regain a sense of stability, optimism and even excitement about his work. Sadly, after living for a year at the asylum, he was discharged and committed suicide two months later.  

We drive down a pretty lane bordered by a stone wall alongside which stand reproductions of Van Gogh masterpieces. He was at his peak of skill and productivity while living at the asylum, influenced by its remarkable calm and serene setting. We look at the inner gardens from his window just as he would have seen them.  It's really remarkable.  The colors of his paintings are exactly what you see in San Remy and the surrounding area. He was always taken with what most people call ordinary objects, captivated by the detail of form and color, and he painted them in a way that has changed everyone's appreciation of them ever since then. 

The monastery still treats the mentally ill; the gift shop sells their art. The place is peaceful; we are both struck by. It is one of the most remarkable places I've ever been before. 

We return to our hotel, which is very close by, to eat our fruit and to make a new plan. This is San Remy Day for us, and we want to explore close to home. After our break, we go to the Musee des Alpilles (Alpilles is the name of the rocky short mountain range south of town), housed in a 16th century stone house in the center of the oldest part of San Remy.

The museum has a collection of farming tools, goods and images from the town's early days when the population was almost all agricultural. Displays tell us about bee keeping, wool gathering, seed production, cicadas (a favorite local bug that lives for years underground, coming out into the open long enough to make its buzzing song, mate and lay eggs before dying), and a photography exhibit of local town scenes from the late 1800s to early 1900s.

We walk around and window shop, finger a few cute things, debate buying or not, stroll on. We work up an appetite again, but it's too early.  In the States, we eat at 6 PM or so, usually earlier if we can.  In France, you get no attention whatsoever until after 7 PM. No such thing as Happy Hour here unless you are at a bar. Places open for service at 7 PM and most diners begin to show up at 8 PM and later.

We are ready to eat tonight at our usual hour and have to kill some time. What we really want is to go put our feet up, be slobs and eat pizza while watching TV. You know, be American. There is a magazine and curio shop across from the restaurant area. The racks are long and filled with maybe 500 kinds of magazines. I pick one up on bullfighting and look at it. Every bullfighter is striking the same pose: A graceful arch of the back, a lowered cape, and a bull rushing past with its horns lowered. Apparently bullfighting is popular in southern France, but we have not seen a ring anywhere. I wouldn't go watch, but since it's part of the local culture, I'm curious to know about it.  It's gruesome and cruel though, so I put the magazine away.

I choose some postcards, look at them for awhile, and then put them all back. Dinner is too close, and I'm too hungry to make any decent decisions.  I have found no post offices open, by the way. Even with posted hours on the doors, they are closed for some mysterious reason. Strike? Who knows.

We locate a darling pizza place on a dead end street (10 foot wide street) and finally get to eat.  It's good and we are happy at last.  Then, home and sleep.  Tomorrow will be our last day in Provence.

Old France: UNESCO Sites of Pont du Gard and Avignon Palace of the Popes

In the middle of the night, right outside our hotel grounds, there is a cackling, grunting creature that begins calling loudly. We have no idea what it is and have wracked our brains trying to imagine what it could be. Maybe devil bird with a microphone and sound system, a Tasmanian Devil run amok, a large choking cat. We sleep restlessly, with strange dreams. In the morning, the sound has ceased and we shuffle downstairs to the front desk. We approach the desk.

"Monsieur?"

"Oui," the proprietor responds dryly, lifting his eyebrow.

"We hear a loud noise in the middle of the night. C'est quoi?"

"C'est une petite grenouille," he answers. It is a little frog. He is showing us his fingertips pushed together and indicating something the size of a ping-pong ball.

"No!" we are astonished. The devil we imagined these past three nights, based on the racket, is a frog?

The monsieur nods slowly. He has answered our question. So, a frog. Of all things.

The monsieur wishes us a bonne journee, so we depart the hotel and begin our trek northwest, bound for Pont du Gard, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The weather is changing, turning to overcast and unsettled; we are wearing our jackets and have brought our umbrellas. We negotiate dozens of traffic circles and gradually decipher more and more traffic signs. It's a challenge and we're glad there are two of us, one to drive and the other to read maps and navigate. We have to drive through Tarascon, which is not too much of a problem except that there is a lot of road construction. This town borders the Rhone river, a major artery in the southern part of the country, and it's wide like the Missouri River. Charmingly, two huge chateaux face each other right at that junction of river and highway, serving once again to lever our minds back in time to the Middle Ages and beyond.

I remind my driver to keep his eyes on the road instead of all the castles and cool things distracting him in the distance. He complies and we emerge from the snarl of detours and traffic diversions intact. We continue on our way, taking the most direct route possible, which is a two-lane country road. Then, abruptly we are there.

"There" is a very large parking lot made to accommodate several hundred cars, but only a few are there. Parking costs 15 euro, but it turns out to be the entry fee also. So, we walk along a broad sidewalk under the darkening skies and mulberry trees. Now there is a lazy but not stagnant river off to our right and then... and then...there is a long three-tiered bridge stretching from way over to the left to way across the ravine through which the river flows.  There are dozens of symmetrical arches, an elegant and incredible remnant of Roman times. We ooh and aaah quite a bit, noticing we cannot really tell how big the bridge is.  Then we see people walking on the lower tier and they look like little ants.  Oh. It's pretty big.

This is the Pont du Gard, a bridge built to transport water high above the river as part of a long aqueduct. Immediately a lot of questions form: How old is it, how was it built, why was it built, how many people did it take to build it, how long did it take, where did the stone come from? and on and on. It is very easy to cross the bridge and it would be very easy to jump off if you were so inclined. There are no guard rails, just a polite request not to jump or to clamber on the lower portions of the bridge. So, we stroll across, encountering dozens and scores of other visitors speaking languages from everywhere, including Americans who, of course, clamber on the lower portions of the bridge and yell, "okay, take my picture now!" to their friends. None of them jump off the bridge, to my relief. No other group yells or ignores signs.

There is a fantastic new museum on the left bank that answers every one of my questions and more. We learn about the Roman engineering system, building bridges, building aqueducts, and on and on. It's really fascinating, a fabulous museum that is a must-see.

Finally, we have learned enough for one day about building bridges out of stone and recross the bridge to look for food. A very large terrasse with a cafe presents itself and we sit. I order for us both after we have consulted the menu. Oops.

My choice is delicious, a veal pate enveloped in a flaky crust to start and then a potato and fish casserole topped with cheese. His is much more challenging. It has round things with tentacles and is bright yellow. At least there is some risotto. He looks very distressed as tentacles are a dreaded bit of seafood anatomy he does not tolerate well at all. I entreat him with bits of my veal and my potato casserole. He is wounded and I am again frustrated with my French. I promise to do better. He says he will be okay and takes bites of his yellow squid-like mystery food and gazes at the immensely impressive Pont du Gard in the distance, which helps. Finally, our meal is over and we make a plan.

The next stop is Avignon, where the famous pont, or bridge, is but we plan to see the Palace of the Popes. The palace and then the bridge and city walls were built about 700 years ago and then changed this way and that by various reigning individuals. The spectacular structure is now a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Palace housed two different popes during the middle ages, in succession, and they each had their turn in designing and building onto the structure.

We arrive in Avignon on a busy city thoroughfare and see the old walls of the city with their guard towers and crenulations. It takes a little bit of looking, but we find a parking spot and begin our walk across the old part of town to the main attraction we want to see. Rounding a corner, we see the Palace, which is gigantic, a gothic palace and surrounding region.

There is a broad open plaza in front of the Palace and its facing building, which is lesser in size but grand in design.
We take a walk around the perimeter of the area, negotiating a few narrow streets, some steep stairs and a few areas we are pleasantly surprised by including a hill-top park that has a grotto, fountain and pretty shaded lawn. The most impressive and beautiful surprise is a cobbled street bordered by the immense tower walls of the palace. They stand on solid rock and seem to organically rise up, becoming organized somehow and geometric as the rock-turned-wall shoots up into the sky. A graceful archway acts as a low buttress and bridge overhead and nearby stone buildings create an echoing street that is fantastic with sound and music. An accordion player entertains passersby (pointing to his hat on the ground that he wishes were full of money).

A place like this bears lingering in and looking at for a while. You don't run up to it, snap a shot and then rush off to another site. It commands attention.  So, we sit and look for a while as we take a snack break and rest.

Hours later, after returning home, changing clothes and going out, we find Ax, a restaurant recommended by the man at the information desk in San Remy. Remembering the yellow squid-like mystery food at lunch, I do not venture a guess on any dinner items for my husband. I have filet of anchovies in olive oil and seasonings with mint pate to start and then a very light fettuccine dish with fava beans, peas and other fresh veggies cooked briefly and lightly. He ends up happy with his meal, and we are both nicely tired.

Tomorrow is market day in San Remy, and I'm thinking about gifts.