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.

Glanum, Baux and Eagle Ears in Provence

It's Monday morning, and we are eating outside on the gravel-covered terrasse under the spreading mulberry trees. It is quiet, peaceful and larks are fluting in the trees.  Eventually, we brush off our croissant crumbs (creating a little snow storm of crust bits because the pastries are so crisp and flaky), and drive away to Glanum, which you've never heard of. I hadn't either.

The Romans, as they expanded outward from Rome sometime before Jesus worked his miracles, came to this area and appropriated small settlements of the Gauls and built temples, aqueducts, baths, public plazas and roadways. They were a busy lot and impressed everyone for many kilometers in every direction. Then eventually they "fell" and left behind a lot of interesting artifacts.

Here in the area of what is now Southern France, the Romans appropriated a lot of little villages and towns.  One such area was a settlement called Glanum. Archeologists discovered the area in 1927 (give or take a few years), well after Vincent Van Gogh strolled around here painting pictures. It is said he never knew the site existed.

These are things we learn by touring the archeological ruins. The interpretive signs in English and French show terrifically detailed views of what is there now and how it would have looked in various time periods for more than two millenia. What they have been able to discern by seeing vague scratches and indentations on large blocks of limestone is nearly miraculous.

Some restoration of part of a temple has been done and much study made of the underground water system including lead pipes and canals beneath the ground that not only transported fresh water to public places but to homes as well. There were latrines, warm, cold and hot baths, swimming pools, springs, wells, fountains and sewer lines.

The most revelatory items I see in the little museum on site is a display of very tiny utensils made of iron. A delicate perfume box only an inch long and tapered in the shape of a fish was exquisite in its fine detail, a great contrast to all the huge stone building blocks the site was made up of. Artifacts date back about 300 years BC.

Satisfied with our tour at Glanum, we head south over a range of stubby mountains called Les Alpilles. The road winds and twists through a forested area and then reveals an escarpment in the distance that sports the ruins of a castle.  Of course it does, it's France. Castles and craggy ruins crop up everywhere here. The one we are looking at is called Baux, another one of the 150 Most Beautiful French Towns.

This upswept ridge of limestone was a strategic place to integrate a castle right into the cliff face.  It was sacked eventually and fell into ruin for a while. It is now a showplace for medieval weaponry and lots of fun for giggling schoolkids who dress in costumes for their day at the castle with classmates.  As is true for these hilltop wonders, we are made to park down below (for 4 Euro) and walk up steep old stairways to the upper plateau where the town begins.  I imagine the original people who built the place strong and nimble as mountain goats, obviously capable of immense work.

As soon as we reach a cafe, we head in and have a salad and bread with a lot of chugging of water after having become intensely thirsty. I am getting very slowly better at asking for water, but the waiters usually look some version of exasperated, puzzled or fearful of being infected by me when I attempt to ask for a simple pitcher of water instead of bottled water. I am determined to improve my French as it is an important language, especially since I will die of thirst if I don't.

It's a hot day with clouds looming over the distant castle crags.  We manage to top off finally and then leave to tour the ramparts. No sooner are we out on the upper plain of the hilltop than I manage to slam my left foot into a jutting rock in the ground and basically say "ouch" and wonder if I still have my foot connected to my ankle bone.  Yeah, that was painful all right.  I need to scream, but I'm in France and I cannot scream in French yet, so I hold my comments for later.

I am distracted by a demonstration of a trebuchet anyway, so I get going to watch.  A trebuchet is the coolest mechanical weapon ever invented because it seems so much more like a big toy than a thing with which to whack enemies.  It is basically a huge windup slingshot with a counterweight that causes a long arm to fling a load of something way high up into the air and far away from the trebuchet itself.  The demonstration throws a massive water balloon something like 300 yards away where it explodes with a massive splat that sets the crowd of kids cheering wildly.

The kids get to learn how to play tether ball with a large leather hackey sack thing on a rope, duel with cardboard swords, see other large weapons set loose on the enemy and tour the lower parts of the old castle ruins.  We take a self-guided tour of the area and try to imagine the way it looked in its hey day.

A bit of shopping follows in the little town itself, but we buy nothing. The idea is that there is a market on Wednesday in San Remy that will offer better prices, so we hold off.  With plenty of daylight left, we pile back into our oven-like black Peugeot and take a different road down the hill. The radio plays Euro pop and French talk radio.  We zoom along a winding road through a pretty forest heading north and find ourselves lost again. But lost is good; you never know what will happen next and it's usually interesting. We get to see more of unscripted, open countryside blanketed with leafy trees, grassy meadows, wheat fields, vineyards, olive groves and tractors pulling out into onrushing traffic.

Not happy about being potentially too lost, we argue briefly about how to proceed, decide on a plan. We choose Eygalieres (I decide to corrupt the word horribly and call it Eagle Ears) as our next destination as it is listed in our guidebook as a town of "character." Character = rustic, charming and real.  Its oldest area was built probably 500 years ago or more and occupies the highest promontory, the most defensible space for miles. As towns have grown, they have spread out from their upper tips to the flanking plains below. It's a sweet place to wander and I love it. I want to take it home with me.

Satisfied with the day but with my toe turning purple, I vote for going back to our pleasant hotel, Canto Cigalo, for dinner. My toe's okay, just discolored and kind of puffed up a bit, but it still fits in my shoes, so I can dress for dinner, which I do. The dinner is a cold but delicious salad made of hard boiled egg, slices of cantaloupe, lettuce, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, crisps of toast with rounds of brie on them and the ever-present French bread. I've survived in fine style,  as evidenced by my vivid toe, and I am ready to think of tomorrow.

Tomorrow, two UNESCO world heritage sites are on the list.

Provence Eats Me Alive

Wait, where am I?

I wake up in the middle of the night after dreaming about accordions and rocky hillsides. Did I dream about being the middle of a huge outdoor marketplace in an ancient town in Provence called Isle sur la Sorgue? No, it was real, but it seems so long ago now. Traveling is bringing on a familiar disorientation to time. It's only a problem if you have to deal with reality in any significant way.

We awakened early this morning in the villa hotel, in the outskirts of an old weatherbeaten town in the south of France called San Remy de Provence. The hotel - more a B&B than anything - has about 20 rooms or so, each one tastefully if not fluffily decorated and outfitted with many of the comforts of home. It has two stories and two terrasses (the French word describes a combination of patio, courtyard and deck), the main one being out in the villa's front area where several tables are set with chairs and market umbrellas. Out on that terrasse, we eat our petite dejeuner. With no other Americans evident, we represent the USA in the eyes of the other guests who are from France, Germany, Portugal and England, judging from the accents I overhear. We behave ourselves and do the country proud.

Two cups of caffeine and maps helping quite a lot, we round up our rental car and set off for Isle sur la Sorgue (island on the Sorgue river). There are very long flat stretches of country two-lane highways that are bordered on both sides with tall old sycamore trees that form a green tunnel of dappled light. Did Napoleon plant them? Or some fanatic gardener turned regional government leader? I love them, as they feel a lot like I am traveling into a beautiful time tunnel out which I will emerge in the middle of another century.

We arrive in Isle s.l. Sorgue, park about a click away from town and walk in to see it. Lo and behold, there is an open-air market going on. What at first seems like a small plaza of space taken up with a few stalls, we wend our way further and further into the old part of town amidst hundreds and hundreds of people cramming the narrow spaces between buildings and the vendors stalls.

Here is Provence in all its color, flavor and vigor. It is upon me in an instant like a welcome tsunami of flavor, fragrance and energy. Provence is a region massively identified with a zillion types of olives, tapenades, olive oils, earthy colors, cicadas (like hummingbirds and dragonfiles are popular in California), bees and honey, chevre cheese, lavendar and herbs. All of those are displayed in heaps, baskets, bags and trays throughout the market. A man selling fruits has cherries on stems draped from his ears. A woman shouts to the crowd about her olives, oils, and garlic. I taste some and want to buy all of it (of course). Another booth is selling roasted chickens and has a huge tray of paella to sell. Flowers, pretty dresses, linens, jewelry, and some booths selling more ordinary junky stuff go on and on, winding street after crooked street. It is Monterey's farmers market times 1,000, without exaggeration.

As if spit from a chute, the market releases us at last. I managed to find a good bargain on a pretty scarf and a set of four bowls painted in Provencal colors. It takes some time to calm down, catch my breath, get a grip on reality. The market is addicting and intense. I want more. My husband drags me away. I thank him for it later.

Then, while we begin our long walk back to our parked car, we see a big waterwheel next to the road, slowly turning its moss-covered paddles in the stream. This is one of seven that remain from 200 years ago when they powered silk factories and paper mills. We snap pictures, admire them and the steady flow of the shallow streams and decide to take a shortcut back to our car. Ha ha ha. An hour and a half later, after getting totally lost (hoping our supposed shortcut will eventually pan out), we get to our car all sweaty, tired and very footsore. Ugh, food please, water please. I am thinking I have to suffer for my joy in this world and this proves it.

While baking to death in our black car parked in the blazing sun (no shade to park in), we see a nearby town on our map marked with a star and decide that's our destination. So, off we zoom with A/C on full blast. My feet are throbbing and I hate France for a split second until the interior of the car gets cooled off.  Then, I love it again.  Fickle, huh?

The town is called Gordes. It's on a steep hill overlooking a pastoral valley whose gently undulating slopes have settled in over the years just like a pretty coverlet laid over someone's knees. We climb up and around a winding narrow road that begins to show signs of arid ruggedness; rock walls are lining it on both sides, and they are dry white stone with jaggedly angled slabs of rocks along their tops. All of a sudden, the medieval town comes into view and I yell, "Oh my God, there's a castle on top!" See what an American I am? It's a densely clustered heap of crazy steep angles, stone walls sloping upward and all clinging together as if a regular town on the plains has been pushed upward by a big hand and smashed together there with plaster.  That sounds ugly, which it isn't. It's just so fairy-tail-ish that my words fail me.

We park our car, pay the lot attendant and begin the walk up to town with me taking pictures of every step, every pebble, every little thing. We get to the town center and see that the area is a big abbey cresting a steep hill surrounded on its lower flanks by the town, which now basically serves as pit stop for tourists. There are many fine restaurants, cafes, ice cream vendors and beauty everywhere. I find a "saladerie" and we enjoy the plat du jour consisting of a vegetable torte, leafy green salad provencal and plenty of water. This is just what we needed after our long trek back in the last town. Refreshed entirely we explore the nooks and slopes of this beautiful old city. The local stone is very pale limestone, the same color as the plaster. Iron fixtures are used in graceful ways to attach doors and shutters and small peepholes emerge in the oddest spots, all charming and a perplexing at times. It's amazing to think that people live in such a place and think of it as just a regular ol' place.

The tourist information center is in the citadel abbey at the tippy top of the rugged hill. There is a man at the counter who speaks good enough English to be able to answer my question about the status of the town as one of France's 150 most beautiful towns. He gets out a map for me, indicates others in the region and wishes me bonne journee.  I ask him about the most prominent and austere landmark in the entire region, Mont Ventoux. He shrugs that classic Gallic shrug with a chin gesture that says, "What can you say?" Mont Ventoux is one of the h'ors categorie (beyond category) climbs in the Tour de France that humbles every racer to a point of tears. I see it and think of nothing but the Tour and its legends. This mountain is one of the most legendary of all climbs, a killer. It's a white ghost-like hump some distance to the north, and it looks frightening in its massiveness, bare at the top and known to be windy as hell and unearthly to riders as well as ordinary humans who drive cars.  It's a beast.

We see that Roussillon is across the valley, ochre and green in the distance. It's our next destination and one of the 150 Most Beautiful Towns, a must see.

Oh, my dear lord, I love this place. It was recommended by my sister who is an artist and who knows me pretty well. "I think you're really going to like Roussillon." It seems like saying, looking back on it now, "I think you'll really like breathing."

It's off-the-charts beautiful, saturated in colors that range from a dark rust to orange-red to melon orange and then to paler shades of sand and brown. All colors are derived from the local sandstone cliffs and their mineral deposits that are so vivid that they have to be seen to be believed. When you see them, one's usual aversion to over-the-top intensity in bright colors flies right out the window.

I take more and more pictures. It seems nearly impossible to take a bad shot. Nothing is ugly in this town. Well, a few dog piles kind of miss out on beauty, but the rest is spectacular. Photoshop is unnecessary. As a matter of fact, when I see the images downloaded later, I think they are so satisfyingly rich in color that no one will believe that they are raw. They are unretouched, totally as the scene was recorded by my iPhone.  

The car is parked again at the bottom of a modest hill that we walk up slowly, taking photographs. It's exciting to see so many shots. I think about sunset and how a good sunset would be incredible here, but we are a little too early to be able to see that last best light of the day. It's getting better, but we can't stay until sunset.  A sorbet and a bottle of water renews our flagging energy, and we finally say good-bye to the colorful, rustic town perched on a sandstone cliff and promontory in this visually rich part of France.

On the drive back to the hotel, it seems that Impressionism had to evolve here because of the nature of light and the textures of grasses, the soil, the trees and shapes of the craggy limestone cliffs and promontories. I wonder if Van Gogh hadn't painted what he saw, would someone else have eventually produced similar images? Most see that his images are timeless in their freshness and ingenuity, and it is certain that when the artist found his muse in the region of Provence he was unable to resist the urge to depict scene after scene.

We wind up the day at a pretty ordinary pizza joint in San Remy, one of a handful. I am in a bit of a fog after so much looking around today, maybe not a new sensation to me really, but it's due to the visual overstimulation. I have to sleep, have to process, have to let it sink in. This place, a jumble of things at first, is just beginning to layer into my conscious mind. People who live here have deep roots that go back centuries. The buildings are mostly 300 years old, some 800 or 1,000 years old, and things are done in certain ways for a reason, usually generating from the very stone and dirt itself. Nothing is skin deep, no place is temporary. I have a lot to learn.

Into the Heart of Provence I Go

It's time to pack up and leave Paris. At last I'm going to Provence, something I've waited to do for years. It's the mediterranean allure that attracts so many, a sensual, historically rich region that is really calling me. I'm excited not only about the travel ahead but that I've gone through a week (only a week) of living in Paris and getting a glimmer of an idea of what this city life might be like for a longer time. There is something about Paris that feels innately feminine, sophisticated and patient. Yet it has energy and verve.  A lot of what appeals about Paris is simply that it's European. The time frame of the day is different, and because of that your spirit has more room to breathe.

But, I do have a couple of hours before the train leaves Gare du Lyon at 1:15 PM, so my husband, who has just returned from Chartres after completing his own retreat, and I walk over to a cafe where the snappy waiter in black and white formal and traditional attire, seats us, takes our order, trying to sell us the big breakfast. I decline him and off he sprints for my coffee and croissant. My husband tucks into an omelette and we drift away into conversation and watch Paris from our cafe window.

Afterwards, we have enough time for a walk and angle over to Notre Dame past the dashing and beautiful fountain depicting Saint Michael and past St. Severin church and some very classic cafes nearby. Then the Seine is flowing past us and we see Notre Dame and its hordes of tourists again. It is so tremendous a structure with its glaring gargoyles and grotesque buttresses, spiny peaks and steeples that I am both fascinated and revolted by it. It does not inspire my faith to be stronger, what faith I have at this point, but it does instill fear and awe, not emotions I believe relate to heaven or aspiration to goodness and piety. I think it might be closer to morbid curiosity actually, reinforcing the belief that wickedness thrives in the world.

One way or another, we find ourselves shopping along the main narrow street on Ile St. Louis, the smaller and most elegant of the two islands in the middle of the Seine. This is an old world place, where shops are very tiny and very specialized, every one of them fine purveyors of ultra gourmet foods. A fromagerie, a patisserie or two or three, a boulangerie, a marionette store, an olive oil store, a charcuterie where chickens are sold with their long legs and feet sticking up into the air like weird dancers. It is possible to go to a different store for every ingredient of your meal along this street.

Then, with time growing short, we walk rapidly back to the Boulevard St. Germain, take the metro a half mile to our hotel's neighborhood, grab our bags, hail a taxi at the taxi stand back on the boulevard and wave good-bye to the busy urbane place that feels so foreign and so familiar all at once.

At Gare du Lyon, which is a wonderful place to watch masses of travelers as they await their trains, we eat a salad and some bread and then board the TGV, the ultra-fast super train that will take us to Avignon, a distance of 450 miles in less than three hours. Other passengers settle in and then unwrap their baguette sandwiches and drinks while the train, whisper quiet and smooth, begins to move.

After a few kilometers while we clear the outer bounds of Paris, the train accelerates up to a speed that is deceptive in its silkiness. I cannot guess the speed, but the train is capable of going 200 mph, so it must reach 150 at times. Every once in a while a train from the opposite direction causes a sensation of compressed air as it goes by with a sound like phooomph! Very cool. To my knowledge, we have nothing like it in the USA.

We arrive at the Avignon station. We have a very easy time getting our reserved car from Hertz and settle into the economy-sized Peugeot. The French drive on the same side as we do, but they use roundabouts, which I enjoy quite a bit since they feel like a nice flow of direction instead of intersections with stopping and starting all the time.

It's obvious that Provence looks like California in its best and prettiest regions just inland from the coast. That's a disorienting feeling, not only because we've just been whisked from Paris but because we really aren't in California at all. Olives, wines, cheeses, citrus, fruits and terrain are very familiar, but while some would say we are copying the French in California, Provence has been what it is for two millenia, since the times of the Roman empire.  The croplands have been plowed a long time and buildings were not built to code, if you know what I mean.

We arrive at our our hotel, which is a villa on several acres, charming and very peaceful. The land is arid, like our western states. I think we are the only English-speaking people here. The desk clerk, one of the owners, helps me by trying his English while I hesitantly give it a go in French. It's weird, but sometimes I am fine and others I do very poorly. Not enough practice. Anyway, we are here.  We are tired, too.

After a nap, we dress for dinner and drive into town, San Remy de Provence, and begin a search for a dinner place.  There are winding streets and the town is on a gentle curving slope, so it's easy to get lost in the maze. I am fascinated, as usual, with architectural details, style, colors, light, texture, the air, the sun, everything. It's slowing me down badly, but I love it.

We find a bistro so cute it's ridiculous, the real deal, called Bistro de Marie, and I have to say I cannot describe it to you except that it's in an old building whose stone interior is worn, charming, decorated with many, many collections of old toys, kitchen items, furniture pieces, pictures, art, and curious lighting. Again, living up to a building code would be totally impossible. Building inspectors reading this, do not come to Provence; you will have nightmares.

Dinner? Slices of barely seared duck in a light mustard sauce paired with arugula in a dressing, braised Provencal rabbit with olives and potatoes. Mango sorbet floated on stewed cherries finished my meal. All light, all seasonal, all new to me. That, mesdames et messieurs, was quite a day.