Bored, Avignon by Melissa Rossi
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Provence: land of swirling sunflower paintings, swaying lavender fields, velvety wine, men who look like Kevin Kline. Its very name is poetic in that words-spilling-over-your-lips French way. Oh, and I was filled with dreamy notions about the region that unrolls through south-eastern France.
After years of gazing at picture books, watching "French Kiss," reading Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence, I was finally to experience that place earmarked in my mind under the heading "Bit o’ Heaven on Earth."
And what could be sweeter than staying in its heart: Avignon, the walled medieval city that was home to 14th century popes dodging political turmoil in Rome? Like emperors, popes have impeccable taste.
Crossing the Rhone river, the ramparted, spiralling towers of Palais des Pape swathed in gold light, imposed upon black night, cut a profile as striking as any modern cityscape, filling me with the expected awe.
At daybreak, after brushing off croissant crumbs, I left my maniacally cheerful room - dizzying with its heavily-splashed sunflower prints - and set out to delve into life Provençale. And soon I became very grumpy. Because Avignon on a crisp fall day is about as exciting as mid-winter Topeka. And I don’t speak French. And postcards cost nearly as much as meals in Romania.
At first, I crankily decided, Avignon was a farce: a town that looks best in calendars. A flower cart here, a bon-bon-happy candy shop there, a coffee store with old tins in the window. Just enough photo-worthy visuals to keep you from snoring.
The semi-deserted streets, however, made it hard to imagine that this town was once "a sinkhole of vice" filled with noise, merriment, and corruption; it was likewise difficult to envision that every July the streets are one big theatre bash with thousands thronging for the Festival d’Avignon.
The initial views simply didn’t match the Provençale images evoked by Mayle or concocted by a stellar bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.
The papal compound, Palais des Papes, was like some cover models: despite stunning facade, inside rather vacant. Even the chapel’s frescoes were stripped and headless: 19th century French soldiers peeled off the holy faces and hawked them. And the resident portraits of the nine formerly-resident popes were fakes (as were two of the nine popes, according to Rome): painted centuries after these popes had died, they’re all different poses of the same sombre model. In Place L’Horloge, a square rimmed with touristy cafes, there’s a double-decker, world famous carousel; like the city’s famed broken bridge, it’s apparently a must-see sight. Bored staring at the unmoving merry-go-round that looks like a party decoration that spun off a tiered cake, I took in a busker - balancing a water bottle on his head. Later on I saw a clown. More exciting: accidentally ordering blood sausage for lunch.
But that evening, I uncovered Avignon’s one block of contemporary coolness: Rue de Teinturiers - The Street of Dyers. A misty lane that winds past candlelit terraces and old water wheels that once swirled with multicolours, it’s enchanting, and home to the resident artistes.Past the people drinking wine against a brick wall, stood a "cave" - a small, laid-back wine bar - with farming tools hanging around, small tumblers for glasses, and a gruff-looking ‘tender who seemed to have walked in straight from picking grapes at the vineyard. Rustic and tourist-free, it’s another reminder that everyone who sets a toe in France should speak Français. My mouth, however, won’t form the French sounds, and for me a croissant will always a crescent roll be.
"Oon vah rujsh." The bartender non comprend. "Oon veen roush? Oon vain roshay?" Still no comprehension, even though the barman probably had a Masters in English and watched Oprah daily. I tried a language medley: "Un vino rosso, a Cotes du Rhone, OK, just a red wine, bub."
A stranger finally ordered for me. Daintily sitting down, amid people pretending to ignore me and my ordering blunders, I remembered the French "Three-day Formula," time-tested and true.
The first day the French look at you with disdain: "Ech a foreignairr." The second day they sniff at you with mild interest. The third day they pull you from your dinner and waltz with you on the sidewalk. And from then on they’re inviting you to parties and discos, and France is a riot. I scarcely had time for three sips, however, when the bartender rang a cowbell and chased everyone out.
Across the street, in the restaurant where old lanterns vertically clutter the ceiling, I dine on an autumn salad studded with apples, cheese and walnuts, and washed down with a smooth, cherry-laced Cotes du Rhone. The restaurant was surprisingly empty.
"What is up with this city?" I asked the waiter. "I mean Avignon! Provence! This is supposed to be the high life!"
"Eet eez twoo," admitted the waiter. "Avignon eez awake for only one monz ouf zee year - when we have zee festival. Zee rest ouf zee time eet eez sheet."
No wonder popes folded up this branch office and returned to vibrant Rome. No wonder nobody fixed the broken bridge. No wonder Van Gogh cut his ear off: he was bored.
This is not how Provence is supposed to be.
I’d seen the broken bridge of nursery rhyme fame, walked by the carousel again, dined on more croissants, drank more au laits. And I was perplexed at what to do next. While certainly quaint, Avignon is not the sort of city that amuses for days, unless you’re there for the festival.
"Um, not to be rude," I asked at the tourist bureau, "but why do people come to Avignon? Besides the summer theatre festival. And the famous carousel.” Answer: they stay here to go to other places. Inconveniently, local trains and buses don’t regularly head to nearby vineyards and villages. Taxis charge prices that would make Gerard Depardieu blanch.
Seeking someone to drive me around, I scoped out another wine cave. While bohemians drank at wine barrels, snickering at my ordering "vino rosso" - I met two French cooks. Though car-less, they sang a song called "Melissa." Melissa is not a French name.
"True," one admitted. "But we French have a love song for the name of every woman." That’s why I adore the French.
Across the street, at Woolloomooloo, a lovely African-flavoured eatery streaming with batiks and brimming with reed plants, it’s packed with people sitting around long tables on the floor, all talking in hushed voices that make American whispers seem thunderous. Avignon may be sweet for lovebirds, though I’m not sure about being there alone
I’m not enchante’ with Avignon. I feel nothing but ennui. The Sunday flea market was just piles of dirty-looking clothes and couple ashtrays, and a bunch of dirty-looking people poking around. Not likeably grimy like Kevin Kline in French Kiss, either. All the transients were out in full force - Sunday apparently being beggars’ day - and I wanted to say "Why don’t you just move, things don’t cost so much elsewhere!"
I instead ran to the train station - and hopped a train to Marseille. A port city in the south, it looks lovely in the postcards. Plus I will finally get to see the country.
This is what the Provencale scenery looked likes on the way: Factory, factory, factory, stand of trees, factory, factory, parking lot, factory, factory, sea-lined factory. Marseille was worse - grimy, pitty, creepy looking guys everywhere who all assume I’m a prostitute. Two hours later, I was back on a train, heading back to Avignon, which while boring at least is clean.
Wandering Rue de Teinteriers, I finally hit paydirt: a rocking little outdoor bar, Tache d’Encre, where arty hipsters yukked it in a courtyard that springs up under palm trees. The mood’s festive, and the bartender Jean Marc - whose English consisted of "Pump Up the Volume!" - was dancing, singing, pouring champagne. Happily, Jean Marc spoke Italian as do I; unhappily, he wasn’t "carful". Neither was cellist Bruno. Jean Marc however, found a driver: middle-aged Bob, who was immediately panting down my neck, slobbering that we will pick champignons together tomorrow. Au contraire monsieur Bob. My hopes for a different driver were dashed. Tonight was the bars last - until spring.
"Go to Bazou, it’s another bar," Jean Marc advised. "You’ll like it there."
Looking for Bazou, I asked directions of two handsome, French-speaking blond guys. English-speakers too, they helped find the sought-after rue. Clearly, if they’re being this helpful, they’re not French. They’re Quebeckers. Every non-French-speaking American’s dream-come-true. They can order the vin rouge.
Bazou being closed, we headed to Woolloomooloo for fromage blanc, a sweet gooey dessert cheese that’s dangerously tasty. I batted my eyes and asked,
"Have a car?" They’re on bicycle. "Well," I asked, rebatting, "if someone, say, rented a car, would you drive?"
Sylvain, the one with glasses and long hair started laughing. "No way, I would never drive here, they drive crazy, no way in hell, driving in France, no way!"
"I love this car!" said Sylvain, gliding the silver Peugeot around a traffic rotary past signs pointing to Orange and Nimes. Luc gazed at a map of red lines threading into the hills.
"Oh look another church!" I said unenthusiastically every three minutes. "Wow, another carousel." For the first three hours, this car seemed a waste - since it costs a whopping $100 a day. Actually we started off fine - with a stop in Chateauneuf du Pape, where we tasted the big wine with the large price tag in a small castle. Then we just winged it - ending up in "villages" that looked like 1970’s strip malls.
"Try Seguret," I finally suggested, and Sylvain drove into the foothills. Just as the sun was slinking away, we arrived and I finally saw something that matched my pre-formulated image of romantic Provence: a tiny stone village, with fingers of red-fringed ivy creeping up walls, fields of gold-flecked green below, and grapes draped from arbors. Heart-achingly lovely. We strolled the two-block Seguret town, finding the one open restaurant: menu starts at $50.
The Mistral winds nearly whisked the car off the road on the way to Orange, a stunning town with a crumbling Roman amphitheatre, where we found La Grotte, a crumbling cove-like restaurant, with bits of stone falling onto the table.
The waiter brought a sizzling hot stone - a pierrade - and we grilled seafood, beef and rabbit tableside. It was wonderful. And I was elated, having found, after some searching, that at least that some of Provence is exactly like it’s supposed to be: park-hugged cafes, castles perched on ochre-streaked mountains, wind-sculpted olive groves and artist-filled wine bars.
"This is so Provencale," I say between bites of grilled rabbit.
"We use pierrade in Quebec, too," says Sylvain. I do like Provence after all. It’s given me a new respect for Canada.
The perfume museum in Graveson-en-Provence was closed, so we began in St. Remy.
"Nostradamus was born there," I noted from the back seat. "And Van Gogh spent time there too." I’m happy because I loved saying "St. Remy en Provence." Little did I know it meant town of slow motion.
Perhaps it’s the Provençale allure: St. Remy is a timeless town. But I had a watch, and a schedule and those expensive rental car minutes were loudly ticking away. At a sidewalk cafe, the gusty Mistral blew up, and the boys ordered rabbit. Two hours later the winds were thrashing everything around and those bunnies still hadn’t been pulled out of the chef’s hat. I darted over to Nostradamus’ house, disappointedly devoid of mystical vibrations.
At the local Van Gogh museum the exhibition was just prints, his originals being in Amsterdam. I bought a picture stamp that took as long to wrap up as Vincent took to paint the real thing.
Then we zipped to the insane asylum best known for frequent visitor Van Gogh. The grounds were lovely and seemed to have shaken loose from a painting: rolling meadows, gnarly trees, lush flower gardens that unleashed an intoxicating perfume. But every time you try to traipse through a field they wanted more money to see what Vincent saw.
"Van Gogh," observed Luc, "must have been very rich to paint here."
When we’d left, the terrain became ruggedly beautiful, windblown with up-thrust rock thrown about and tightly snaked curves, but we’re hardly giddy. Until I saw something that made me yell, "STOP HERE!"
It’s a stunning autumn-tinged vineyard with Roman ruins rising behind it. The wine at Sainte Berthe was delightful, and cheap. The owner was friendly and spoke English. "Van Gogh painted here," he claimed, as I imagined Vincent perched on the hill, wielding his paintbrush like a knife - and took another large gulp.
The wine drove away our bad moods, and as we drove away, it hit me what is most amazing about Provence: the Romans. More of their mementos are visible here than in Rome. Arenas and temples eye-grab towns, pillars spike mountaintops; their grapes were the first, say Italians, planted in French soil. And the Romans didn’t leave carousels - not in Arles (rhymes with snarl), where the coliseum-like arena houses bullfights, or Nimes a modern city with fabulous ruins scattered about, or in the tiny perched temple at nearby Baux, where poets once scrambled about lyrically wooing rich women and where the modern day tourism authorities wanted us to shuck out more dough, probably because Vincent set his eyes on it too.
Alas there’s little more for us to set eyes on, as darkness was descending like thick paint. We soared past lit-up castles, and factories that look like castles - and voila, before you could say "Enchante," we’re checking in the Peugeot - and the Canadians left on their bikes.
Alone in Avignon, I strolled past a dog sleeping atop a wine barrel, mentally listing all the things I didn’t do: visit the vineyards in Cotes du Rhone, go to a cheese makers, hit Aix-in Provence home of Chagall, find Peter Mayle and smash his rose-colored glasses.
And once finally there at Bazou, a salon-like bar-bistro cluttered with art, a remarkable thing happened: three French formula days rolled into one too short evening.
Predictably, sitting around small tables underneath strange sculptures, were the locals who’d witnessed me at the wine caves
"Oh it’s the American who orders vino rosso!" said one silver-haired artist in flawless English. "Sit with us!"
"Thanks for your interpretive help, monsieur," I snipped, preferring the company of the charming owner Stefan, who with elfish face and striped shirt looked like a French version of Englishman Sting.
Stefan invited me to his uncle’s vineyard that weekend, but I was leaving. "Too bad," he said. "Zee last time I took an American there, she was so happy. She was reading a book by Samuel Beckett. Beckett wrote of my uncle’s vineyard, saying he worked there, and the owners adopted him into their family, and treated him like a son." Stefan starts laughing. "But the truth is my uncle’s family doesn’t really remember Samuel Beckett being there."
Oh, Stefan was a balloon-popper all right, I discover turning the topic to Peter Mayle, whom Stefan blames for ruining the area and quadrupling real estate prices.
"Now it costs $60,000 to buy a small country cottage - with a hole in the roof." Stefan lamented. "And Mayle was so critical!"
"Critical?" I asked with a scoff. "Mayle painted a fantasy."
"Well," said Stefan, pouring me another glass of Cotes du Rhone, "one thing I know: Mayle does not know French. My uncle runs the bar where he lives. He says Mayle knows how to say only one thing: ‘Red wine.’"
My respect for Peter Mayle soared.