In September of 2007 I found myself in Avignon, France in good company at the end of a week-long visit to Provence.  My companions and I had spent most of our time in the region based in Châteauneuf-du-Pape but were closing off our visit with two nights in Avignon.  It had been a very good trip and one that I was much in need of.  I was a fortnight off the submission deadline for my PhD dissertation.  My supervisor had signed the forms allowing me to submit it and apart from adding a few commas here and there and some slight rephrasing it was in the form in which I would be examined on.  Had I been at home I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from tinkering with it in a way that would have been pointless, but that would have extended the stressful period of intense revision I’d been engaged in for nearly two months.  The southern French sun, the places we visited, the wine and food all helped me to breath again and actually relax.

We’d passed a very full day in Avignon strolling around soaking up the atmosphere, visiting the well known bridge and Le Palais des Papes.  I’d been particularly excited by the latter as I knew Dickens had visited the place.  He wrote about his tour of the former Papal palace in Pictures From Italy and the vivid imaginings it had inspired in him regarding the torturing of heretics when the place was still in use making some strong criticisms of the Catholic ‘brand’ of Christianity in the process.  I’d written about the technical aspects of these passages at some length and it was nice to feel that I was walking in a place where one of my favourite authors once stopped and reflected.  It also reminded me that there was some connection between the real world and the realm of intellectual analysis of texts that I’d isolated myself in to such a great extent of late.

After our peregrinations about town we were all ready for a fine supper.  We spent a good deal of time strolling side streets reading the menus of the smaller venues that were relatively full.  We almost ate at a Couscousery.  In the end we all agreed on a very intimate place serving traditional French cuisine.  It wasn’t haute cuisine nor was it entirely bistro food.  The place was very nicely decorated in a way that was tasteful even if the taste wasn’t ours.  It wasn’t.   There were small crystal chandeliers, plush carpet that looked like it was probably replaced rather than hoovered when dirty and a very efficient and friendly staff.  The table cloths, cut from a cream coloured fabric were heavy and fine.  Overseeing all of this with a mixture of pride and concern on her face was the proprietress who stood quietly in a corner and directed her staff with hand gestures and soft noises often anticipating her patrons desires before they themselves were conscious of them.  Her dress appeared to be cut from the same cloth as the table cloths.

My French is non-existent.  Growing up in California I took years of Spanish lessons.  Then I moved to England and I’ve spent more time in French-speaking places that in those where Spanish is spoken.  One of the few things I can manage to make some headway with are French menus.  Because I’m food obsessed I can remember what food terms I’ve seen elsewhere on other menus and get a decent idea of what’s on offer.  I was happily perusing the French menu I’d been provided with when She-of-the-table-cloth-dress appeared by my side and handed me an English translation of that day’s menu.  Clearly she was  proud of it and I thought one or two my companions might it want so I accepted the proffered paper.

For the most part the translation was fine.  It had clearly been done by someone with a working knowledge of English rather than a professional a fact that I found rather charming.  It did the job of explaining what the dishes were without pretending to some sort of grandiose usage of adjectives of the type I’ve seen on other translated menus.  This establishment was clearly happy to let the food, once served, speak for itself.  In the event the food spoke eloquently and could not have had a finer advocate than the marriage of flavours it provided.

That being said there was one little mistake, perhaps the result of some confusion over idiomatic expressions, that made me laugh out loud at the time.  I still chuckle when I think about it.  If the proud and proper woman who was running the fantastic restaurant I found myself in had known the error her translated menu contained I’m sure she would have been mortified.  She may have told me to grow up and get my juvenile mind out of the gutter.  One of the starters was a dish built around scallops removed from their shells.  It sounded fantastic and it didn’t disappoint.  Had I not known the French term for scallop meat, noix de Saint Jacques, I doubt I would have ordered it.  You see, the English menu didn’t translate noix de Saint Jacques, as scallops.  Instead it called them ‘Saint Jack’s Knob Apples.’

I’m a very adventurous diner, but even at a place serving delicious French food I think the images conjured by that phrase would have led me to conclude that poor Jack’s Apples were one delicacy I’d refrain from trying.

Usually visitors from around the world come to the small little seaside towns along the coast for “the season”, which usually starts in May/June and continues until the last day in August.

In the winter months, a sleepy calm overtakes the cities and a blanket of silence envelopes the pristine area. Long gone are the loud and trendy nightclubs, airport rushes and tourist  motor traffic.  Yachts still line the harbors, but the people have seem to have jumped ship.

If you would like to explore the quiet side of the South of France, tour the area during the winter months. The weather is still very mild, with a slight chill at night requiring only a light jacket. From Nice to Monaco to St. Tropez, see a side of Europe that embodies a new view of the typical seaside resort.

Monaco

Avignon

Know for history and theater, the “City of the Popes”  is filled with squares showcasing the many shops, restaurants and courtyards. A perfect way to explore Provence is to walk aimless through the old streets, and experience the local food and wine of the region. Hotel La Mirande is one of the four star properties in the region, and offers afternoon tea, a cooking school and the perfect central location.

Admittedly, it was totally insane and uncharacteristically extravagant of me to say “hell yes!” when my friends proposed going to the South of France just 6 months after my mid-life crisis/40th birthday vacation. Seeing as how that trip took 99% of my non-allocated-for-bills money and all. But THIS European trip was to celebrate one friend’s milestone birthday and another’s graduation; given my whole post-40 carpe diem thing, I figured I could just about justify going.

As long as I didn’t spend a dime on the house or my caboose before the trip. Or food.

But of course my oui oui oui all the way far from home answer was before my ancient computer slipped into a coma and one of my income sources dried up. And also before I realized that plane fares from the West Coast would refuse to get with the “we’re in an economic crisis, enjoy our fire-sale prices” program and actually RISE vs drop. So eventually  I had to face reality, cast one last glance at photos of the darling little Avignon apartment I’d planned to plop in for a week, and tell my pals that I would not be the trois in their menage.

They took it very well, and I took it not well at all. But then I’m someone who nowadays sees NO POINT in working if I can’t spend on things that bring me joy. It’s not very evolved of me, I know.

Luckily, they agreed to share their trip with me in semi-real-time ways by writing online epistles from the aforementioned little Avignon apartment. Unluckily, I was only thinking of my pal Madeline’s passion for photography and history, NOT her passion for gastronomical delights. Which means that in addition to learning quite a lot about the various towns she and my other friend toured, I also had near-daily photos of pastries accompanied by prose such as:

For dessert I had a chilled ganache that was sprinkled with pecans and rolled in a tortilla, sliced into medallions and served with creme anglaise and whipped cream.  L. had some profiteroles.

….

“L’s dessert was definitely the more visually compelling.  She had three scoops of house-made ice cream: gingerbread, Calisson and banana flambee, which were accented with a little kumquat and a slice of star fruit.  It was lovely.  Mine looked a little like breakfast cereal, but it was wonderful:  chocolate raviolis in a white chocolate sauce with flambeed banana ice cream served on the side.”

Friends for almost 30 years, and I never knew she was such a sadist.

It was tough, but I kept reading. All about how they needed me–the 3rd lightweight–to help them finish bottles of excellent wine. About how my tie-breaking skills were missed when arguments about gelato flavors (in France?!) flared. About the thrice-daily tears they shed over my absence. [Okay, one of those was more of a reading-between-the-lines thing.]

Yes, it was tough, but I loved hearing how excited they were about all they were absorbing and ingesting. And I really did learn a lot about desserts and architecture. So thanks, Ms M!

…Ms Madeline has offered up some coloriffic South of France photos so that those of us with open hearts and closed wallets can enjoy some vicarious pleasures…

...grabbed with a camera phone after the 2 adventurers had a particularly decadent, enjoy-our-truth-in-advertising dinner...

]]> http://lorrain1.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/provence-vaucluse-avignon-football-coupe-du-monde-algerie-incivilites-degradations-destructions/ Sun, 22 Nov 2009 01:23:47 +0000 Bernard TRITZ http://lorrain1.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/provence-vaucluse-avignon-football-coupe-du-monde-algerie-incivilites-degradations-destructions/

Provence, Vaucluse, Avignon, Football, Coupe du Monde, Algérie, Incivilités, Dégradations, Destructions – En marge Vaucluse : en foot, l’Algérie flambe et douze voitures brûlent – laprovence.com – Florence Antunes – Les manifestations de liesse dans le département ont parfois débordé. Une vague de joie des supporters en liesse a déferlé en centre ville d’Avignon, mercredi soir, dès la fin de la rencontre qui a propulsé la sélection algérienne en phase finale de la coupe du monde de football au détriment de l’équipe d’Egypte. Des centaines de véhicules ont ainsi convergé vers la rue de la République et tout autour des remparts. Coups de klaxons, drapeaux algériens de sortie, quelques fumigènes allumés ça et là… Des manifestations d’allégresse plutôt bon enfant (malgré des comportements routiers à risques) qui ont néanmoins été émaillées une bonne partie de la nuit par quelques incivilités (conteneurs renversés) mais aussi par des incendies de poubelles et de voitures dans plusieurs quartiers avignonnais. Les premiers feux de poubelles ont été allumés à 19h40, place du 6 juin puis les sapeurs-pompiers d’Avignon ont eu fort à faire jusqu’à 3h du matin, jeudi.
Incompréhension – Au total ce sont ainsi dix voitures qui ont flambé à la Grange d’Orel, Monclar, Saint-Ruf, à l’avenue des Sources, à la Rocade et à Saint-Jean. C’est d’ailleurs dans ce dernier quartier, rue Albin Durand, que trois véhicules en stationnement sont partis d’un coup en fumée. Provoquant l’incompréhension des riverains, pour certains tirés de leur sommeil par des explosions. “On ne comprend plus, bientôt il ne faudra plus faire de matchs”, commentait Jeannine, l’une des victimes qui a vu sa Picasso entièrement détruite par les flammes. “Deux ans que je l’ai, et le crédit n’est pas terminé…”, déplorait cette retraitée. “J’ai les boules… c’est la première fois que je vois ça depuis 35 ans que je vis ici”, complétait Yves, son mari. Au cour de cette même soirée de mercredi, deux autres véhicules ont brûlé dans les villes de Sorgues et Carpentras. Dans la cité comtadine, on a pu également noter des incendies de poubelles, tout comme à Bollène et Orange. Seize méfaits de ce type ont ainsi été comptabilisés sur l’ensemble du département de Vaucluse. A Bollène, les gendarmes ont fait état de quelques débordements. A savoir, un jet de pierres contre un camion de pompiers et contre l’un de leurs véhicules.

Provence, Vaucluse, Avignon, Football, World Cup, Algeria, Rudeness, degradation, destruction – Alongside Vaucluse: in football, Algeria and twelve flames burning cars – laprovence.com – Florence Antunes – The jubilation in the department sometimes overwhelmed. A wave of joy jubilant supporters swept into the center of Avignon, Wednesday evening at the end of the game that propelled the selection of Algeria in the final phase of World Cup football to the detriment of the team of Egypt. Hundreds of vehicles and converged on the streets of the Republic and all around the walls. Loved horns, flags Algerian output, some smoke lit here and there … Demonstrations of joy rather good child (despite risky driving behavior) which were nonetheless glazed much of the night by some incivility (inverted container) but also by trash fires and cars in several districts of Avignon. The first fires were lit garbage at 19.40, up from 6 June and firefighters Avignon have been busy until 3 am Thursday.
Misunderstanding – In total it is thus ten cars that have soared to the Grange Orel Monclar, Saint-Ruf, the Avenue des Sources, the Ring Road and St. John. It is in this last quarter, rue Albin Durand, three parked vehicles are suddenly gone up in smoke. Causing the lack of residents, some from their sleep by explosions. “It does more, soon it will make more games,” commented Jeannine, one of the victims who had his Picasso completely destroyed by fire. “Two years I have, and credit is not finished?” Lamented the retiree. “I have balls? Is the first time I saw it for 35 years I have lived here,” Yves completed, her husband. During that same evening of Wednesday, two other vehicles were burned in the cities of Carpentras and Sorgue. In the city Comtadin, we have also noted the trash fires, as in Bollène and Orange. Sixteen harm of this type have been recorded throughout the Vaucluse department. A Bollène, the police reported some flooding. Namely, a stone throw against a fire truck and cons of one of their vehicles.

Provence, Vaucluse, Avignon, Football, World Cup, Algerien, Unhöflichkeit, Abbau, Zerstörung – Neben Vaucluse: im Fußball, Algerien und zwölf Flammen, brennende Autos – laprovence.com – Florenz Antunes – Der Jubel in der Abteilung manchmal überwältigt. Eine Welle der Freude jubelnden Fans strömten in der Mitte von Avignon, Mittwoch Abend am Ende des Spiels, das die Auswahl von Algerien in der Endphase der Fußball-WM-Antrieb zu Lasten des Teams von Ägypten. Hunderte von Fahrzeugen und die Konvergenz der auf den Straßen der Republik und an den Wänden. Loved Hörner, Fahnen algerischen Ausgang, zündete einige rauchen hier und dort … Demonstrationen der Freude eher gutes Kind (trotz riskanten Fahrverhalten), die jedoch glasiert waren viel in der Nacht durch eine Unhöflichkeit (umgekehrtes Container), sondern auch von trash Brände und Autos in mehreren Bezirken von Avignon. Das erste Feuer angezündet wurden Müll um 19.40 Uhr, ab 6. Juni und Avignon Feuerwehrleute wurden beschäftigt, bis 3 Uhr am Donnerstag.
Missverständnis – Insgesamt ist es also zehn Autos, die den Grange Orel Monclar, Saint-Ruf haben, stieg die Avenue des Sources, der Ringstraße und St. John. Es ist in diesem letzten Quartal, rue Albin Durand, drei geparkte Fahrzeuge werden plötzlich in Rauch aufgegangen. Verursacht das Fehlen von Einwohnern, einige aus dem Schlaf von Explosionen. “Es ist mehr, bald wird es mehr Spiele machen wird”, sagte Jeannine, eines der Opfer, der seine Picasso durch einen Brand vollständig zerstört hatte. “Zwei Jahre habe ich, und die Gutschrift wird nicht fertig?” Beklagte die Rentner. “Ich habe Bälle? Ist das erste Mal sah ich sie für 35 Jahre habe ich hier gelebt,” Yves abgeschlossen, ihr Ehemann. Während noch am selben Abend vom Mittwoch wurden zwei weitere Fahrzeuge in den Städten von Carpentras und Sorgue verbrannt. In der Stadt Comtadin, haben wir auch festgestellt, in den Papierkorb Brände, wie in Bollène und Orange. Sechzehn Schaden dieser Art wurden in der ganzen Département Vaucluse aufgezeichnet. Ein Bollène, berichtete die Polizei einige Überschwemmungen. Nämlich einen Steinwurf gegen ein Feuerwehrauto und Nachteile eines ihrer Fahrzeuge.

Provenza, Vaucluse, Avignon, Fútbol, Copa del Mundo, Argelia, la grosería, la degradación, la destrucción – Además de Vaucluse: en el fútbol, Argelia y doce llamas quemando coches – laprovence.com – Antunes Florencia – El júbilo en el departamento a veces arrollada. Una ola de alegría exultantes seguidores barrido en el centro de Avignon, la noche del miércoles al final del juego que impulsó a la selección de Argelia en la fase final del Mundial de fútbol, en detrimento del equipo de Egipto. Cientos de vehículos y se reunieron en las calles de la República y alrededor de las paredes. Cuernos favoritos, banderas de salida de Argelia, algo de humo iluminado aquí y allá … Las manifestaciones de alegría infantil bastante bueno (a pesar de un comportamiento de conducción de riesgo), que fueron sin embargo mucho cristal de la noche por algunos incivilidad (contenedor invertida), sino también por los incendios de basura y vehículos en varios distritos de Avignon. Los primeros incendios se encendieron basura a las 19.40 horas, frente a 6 de junio y los bomberos de Aviñón se han ocupado hasta las 3 am del jueves.
Malentendido – En total, por lo que es diez coches que se han elevado a la Monclar Orel Grange, Saint-Ruf, des Sources Avenue, la carretera de circunvalación y San Juan. Es en este último trimestre, rue Albin Durand, tres vehículos estacionados de repente convertido en humo. Causantes de la falta de los residentes, algunos de su sueño por las explosiones. “Hace más, pronto se hará más juegos”, comentó Jeannine, una de las víctimas que tenía su Picasso completamente destruido por el fuego. “Dos años que tengo, y el crédito no ha terminado?” Lamentó el jubilado. “Tengo las pelotas? ¿Es la primera vez que lo vi durante 35 años he vivido aquí”, completó Yves, su marido. Durante la misma noche del miércoles, otros dos vehículos fueron incendiados en las ciudades de Carpentras y Sorgue. En la ciudad Comtadin, también hemos tomado nota de los incendios de basura, como en Bollène y Orange. Dieciséis daño de este tipo se han registrado en todo el departamento de Vaucluse. Un Bollène, la policía informó de algunas inundaciones. A saber, un tiro de piedra contra un camión de bomberos y los contras de uno de sus vehículos.

are viv + i?
“bonjour mon ami…” from southern france!

using “rick steves’ provence & the french riviera guidebook“ (a.k.a. our “other” bible in southern france), vivien outlined a tour de southern france via our avis rental car: an opel. definitely a different experience for me… cause when i vacation, i tend to stay in one hotel/location for the duration of the stay and take a taxi. the long, windy and scenic roads from town to town were pretty fun to drive.

bonjour from hotel negresco in nice! le'g+v...

not knowing what to expect for the city driving/parking conditions, it was crazy and stressful! the streets were SO narrow and often-times one-way and it was shared by cars, bicyclists, scooters, cats and dogs all at the same time! in most intersections, they had these roundabouts that were a bit confusing as well… and just required you to pretty much close your eye and jump into the circle of death and drive around until you find the right road to get off to! you just had to pay attention to the many arrowed signs and pray you chose the right one!

when in doubt... always head toward "centre ville"...

total distance driven: 1234km = 766.772 miles
total spent on diesel: €106 euros = $158.73 USD
total number of swear words dropped: 11 “mutha F-bombs” :|

thank the Lord that there were so many things to ease my driving stress… paellas, poissons and pâtisseries, oh my! 

the places:

- paris

then a short flight to provence (southeastern region in france on the mediterranean, adjacent to italy):
- marseille
- aix en provence:  a happening place where one can enjoy people watching and modern shopping all while checking out some great museums dedicated to van gogh + cezanne.

fountain de la rotunde in the city center...

night time stroll down aix en provence's city center...

- arles:  van gogh called this place home for some time. here is where we also experienced “le mistral” for the first time. passing through the valleys of the rhone and durance rivers, the wind that blew through the streets and the open courtyards were UNREAL! there were times when i opened our rental car doors and really believed the door would rip off from the sheer strength of the mistral!
- st. remy:  great cafés and even greater chocolates! (and van gogh committed himself to an insane asylum in this city).
- les baux

home of "château des baux"... a fortified castle built in the 10th century. one of the most beautiful historic castle/site in france!

- avignon:  we stayed inside the walls of this once fortified city. it is well known for its “palais des papes” (palace of the popes), where several popes and antipopes lived from the early 14th to early 15th centuries and “pont-saint bénézet” (bridge of st. bénézet).

a historical palace (which became the residence of the popes) in avignon, it's one of the largest and most important medieval gothic buildings in europe.

- orange:  seeing the theatre was seriously humbling. since we went kinda late in the tourist season, it was pretty much empty when we got there. and to enter this incredible structure… and taking the site all in gave me goosebumps + chills. to imagine what it must’ve been like in the past when it was filled to capacity and full of energy! the funniest part, was this lone cat that i had to take a picture of… so patiently sitting/waiting in seat 65 for some show to begin. hey andy, can this pic be submitted to http://icanhascheezburger.com/?

théâtre antique d'orange (“ancient theatre of orange”) an ancient roman theatre...

this cat (assigned seat 65) was patiently awaiting for the start of the show...

- vaison la romaine
- isla sur la sorgue
- rousillion
- pont du gard (one of the many landmarks in the provence region that is on unesco’s world heritage list).  and man… when you see this structure it’s truly awe-inspiring. so beautiful, so rich in historic worth… and still standing after all these years! makes me realize how young any of the structures we might have in the u.s.

pont du gard... if it was warmer we would have jumped from the bridge and swam!

- nîmes

the temple of diane...

the pg-version of the matador in front on the arènes de nîmes (thanks to viv + rick steves' guidebook!)

the maison carrée, currently under renovation...

BONUS PIC:

arènes de nîmes' lone matador under the spotlight...

- uzes
- cassis:  a small, quaint seaside port city… it’s referred to as “the poor man’s st. tropez“. this place was definitely my fav! if i go back, i’d stay here longer for sure. the vibe in this place was so nice and relaxed! and after being in the larger cities of aix en provence, arles and avignon, coming here was a great change of pace. the restaurants and shops near the water and the ocean view were breath-taking. cassis is also known for their  magnificent ”calanques” (see picture below). when we return to southern france in the future, we hope to spend more time here so we can charter a boat to the callanque en vau and spend the day on the beach (pictured below viv) and swim the crystal clear waters! t+t, bring your snorkel, mask + fins and join us… oui oui!

everyone in france rode bikes!

view of the boat moor from a local cassis cafe...

waterfront view of cassis

after an aftenoon coffee + gelato, a stroll to the beachfront does a soul good!

i scream, you scream, we all scream for gelato!

after hiking 1.5 hours we arrived to callanque en vau. your own private beach!

and then off to côte d’azur (a.k.a. “the french riviera“):
- cannes
- monaco:  i have NEVER seen so many maseratis, bentleys, rolls royces, and aston martins in my life. i thought viv + i would get shot for driving our rental opel through here.

the casino monte carlo... where true ballaz go to play! there's an admission fee just to get in and gamble!

- eze village
- nice: definitely a tourist mecca. they had an incredible open market on most mornings which looked like pike place market times 10. and the beachfront here was off the chart. seeing the ocean’s color at sunset almost looked fake. viv + i visited the marc chagall biblical museum (prior to going, i had never heard of this artist and after visiting, i am now a HUGE fan of his work) and saw his 12 paintings depicting various stories from genesis + exodus of the old testament (he also has 5 paintings inspired by song of songs). all i could do was just stand speechless and be mesmerized as i looked at each of the paintings. you could literally spend hours looking at each drawing. so much was conveyed through these paintings (the user of shapes and amazing colors)… a reminder to keep being creative and explore how art and faith intersects in my life.

upon entrance of the marc chagall biblical museum... this is your initial view!

viv mesmerized by the "noah and the rainbow" painting by chagall...

sunset in nice = SO nice!

- villafranche

au revoir (for now)…

for more reading:
- where in the world… (part 2)
- where in the world… (part 1)

I stop off for two nights in Avignon en route for the Côte d’Azur. It’s a long journey from Annecy, made all the longer by the cancellation of my planned train and thus a hiccup in subsequent connection. I begin to suspect reverse culture shock following Japan. There’s a connection I’m told twice doesn’t exist, but as the train pulls out of the relevant station, I can see it announced on the board. A three and a half hour journey takes seven. Oh well, the scenery is pleasant enough from Annecy down into Grenoble. Mountains, oh how pretty, then shanty towns around the edge of underpasses, people living in sheds, crap estates, actual France, not the picture postcard.

Avignon itself seems built in two parts. There’s the old walled part of the city and then there’s what is beyond it. I don’t enter the beyond during those two days. I go to the Palais des Papes, wander up and around Rocher des Domes, go for lunch at Le Grand Café. I’m not sure this is the place that my friends in Haute-Savoie referred to, they suggested going for lunch in a place inside a modern art gallery. Is this it? Probably not.

My great pleasure upon sitting down is that I’m facing a large portrait photograph of Romane Bohringer. Now, Romane and myself have something of a history. Not an actual history, a quite imagined history. Romane first came to my attention in 1992  with Les Nuits Fauves, one of the first French films that had HIV/AIDS as a central theme. The subject matter was quite French, the chief protagonist (played by writer/director Cyril Collard who died of an AIDS-related condition in ‘93) was apparently torn between his gay and straight natures as well as his irrepressible desires. Not to mention his impending death. Basically, it meant for most of the film he shagged whomever he wanted and didn’t take any responsibility for how his actions might affect others, in particular the entirely passionate and smitten Romane.

It’s alright for some, I possibly thought, here I am in bleak loveless London, whereas in an imagined France a man can act like an utter bastard and have no problem finding women of such calibre. Years passed and Romane would pop up in other French films from time to time. Since these were blissful times before the internet saturated us with information, when facts about French actresses were dependent on magazine and newspaper articles (and you might well miss an issue and the relevant mention), I knew very little about her.

Romane’s star was possibly most ascendant in the UK around the time of L’appartement in ‘96, a film in which Vincent Cassel makes the idiotic mistake of choosing Monica Bellucci over Romane Bohringer. Oh, but Monica Bellucci, you say… I imagine a life with Monica would be very demanding. Aside from maintaining her in the custom to which she is accustomed, every single day of life would mark some slight decline in her appearance. Let’s face it, she looks great (a supermarket melon perfection) but her acting isn’t up to much. Whereas Romane seem to me to be much more of an artist, she worked with Peter Brook at a young age and, what I’m quite fond of, is that she has some mole on the side of her nose that has remained throughout her career, unlike the airbrushed lad’s mag perfection of Bellucci.

My idealised attachment with Romane was at its strongest around this time. I was living in the countryside in Japan and the local video shop had a surprisingly well-stocked back catalogue of French cinema. Rural isolation encouraged a quite wholesome and teenage fascination with Romane and eventually I wrote a short story on my return to London in which she played the role of a guardian angel, whilst the main story was about a resurrected Mithraic cult that was attempting to gain absolute power. I haven’t read it in ages, if you’re lucky, which might not be that much, it would probably read like Dan Brown reworking Iain Sinclair.

So, trying to get back to food here, as I sat down opposite the photo of Romane, I was reminded of all this. Romane and myself started with a simple olive tart and then treated outselves to an ox-cheek daube. It’s possibly a bit ambitious, I think, we’re (no, hang on, I am…) booked in for dinner in the hotel restaurant. But ox-cheek daube is one of the few French dishes I cook with any regularity and I’m keen to gauge my efforts against this local version. Well, the restaurant’s is good, but my mine is better. Phew. I don’t grudge the dish we’re eating though. It’s quite delicious and everything is swimming along with a 50cl carafe of local Côtes du Rhône.

Romane doesn’t say much. She looks great though. She’s been positioned next to another portrait of Catherine Deneuve. There’s a contrast. The restaurant is fairly quiet, some 70’s French hits play in the background, the waiting staff are fairly underemployed, there’s a relaxed laziness to the place, although I presume it would be quite busy in the summer months outside. Romane particularly appreciates dessert. I’m fond of women who eat food and she wolfs down the rest while my attention is distracted by an outburst of birdsong. I take my coffee out on the terrace.

I wander back towards the hotel, buy a winter cap, three books (the catalogue for the 1992 Fassbinder werkschau, an anthology of Bizarre – a review produced the Collège de ‘Pataphysique in the 50’s and 60’s – and the French translation of Yumeno Kyusaku’s classic Dogra Magra. Back at the hotel, I snooze off and wake up to a retrospective on tv of Marina Abramovic. I must be in France, I think, to be watching this at 4pm. I loll around, take another walk and pop into second-hand bookshop where I pick up two English books: one about Victorian women travellers and the other what appears to be a small selection of writings about Beau Brummel. I can read that over dinner I think…

Dinner is at La Vieille Fontaine where the chef is Bruno d’Angelis. I look for hotels when I’m in England, there’s an inclusive offer of dinner in the online package. Oh, why not, I think. I don’t often stay in fancy hotels, I don’t want more than a clean room, a bath and an internet connection. Bruno has his star. I am only realising now on searching that in fact this is the restaurant where Keith Floyd lunches (and then snoozes) in the recent Keith Allen documentary!

I’m feeling a bit jaded myself after lunch. Dinner should probably be a cheese sandwich and an early night. Instead, I’ve a four course seasonal mushroom tasting menu. Here’s what I ate:

Well, that’s no good, you say. I have to squint quite severely to read a word of that. It’s not a consciously bad photo. It is a photo I take as I’m standing waiting for a taxi to take me to the station the following morning. Like the other photos in this entry, it’s taken with a slightly aged mobile phone at all of 2.0 megapixels. But then, given my comments before, I wonder whether there isn’t a space left for “bad” photography when it comes to food, or perhaps no photography at all. But then, surely the writing needs to be up to par, make the food come alive. My notes of the evening don’t really help here. They are mostly concerned with:

1. Disappointment over Brummel book. It occurs to me upon reading that Brummel didn’t spend his time in Paris buying automobiles. The book in question, whilst enjoyable in its own ephemeral way, is a 1930’s guide to Paris for rich Americans with pertinent suggestions as to where they should spend there dollars on perfumes, shirts, hats and such. It’s not enough of a book to sustain me through dinner. The only available conversation in the otherwise empty restaurant is in Danish from the couple sat next to me. She dissects her lobster with the enthusiasms of a forensic gynaecologist.

2. The chairs. Chairs that are neither high-backed or armchairs. Narrow enough to grasp you around the waist, arms not quite high enough to rest your limbs upon, but quite capable of crushing your jacket. Brummel wouldn’t approve. You try leaning back, no, not much support there. They probably cost a bit. They prevent any form of relaxation. Or escape.

3. Darkness. The restaurant is excessively dark. There’s a chandelier that could be turned on but isn’t. How much of this darkness is because of Europe’s recent proscription on incandescent lightbulbs? A dimming of the day. A vision of our own decline. Time, gentlemen please…

4. The food is good, but for a mushroom themed menu, I’d like to see more mushrooms! At €90, there seems to be a need to tick certain ingredients to justify the price. In order: mushroom themselves, scallops, lobster, beef. I’d have preferred to eat rare and expensive mushrooms and forget about the rest. The scallops remind me just how badly they were cooked at Chez Didi, the tisane des carapaces with the lobster is rather astonishing, but I’m not sure it’s exactly food. The one thing that I don’t like is the jus au Merlot with the beef. It’s reduced beyond necessity, or more pertinently, beyond the point where it’s enjoyable to eat, rather than just admire as a potential oil painting medium.

When I get to my friends the next day, he asks about the meal. In conversational shorthand, I say that it was like an expensive call-girl. You could admire the technical prowess, the sheen of the stockings, the scent, the bag of tricks and moves designed to get the punter off just enough to get them keen to pay for extras. But, as I said, sometimes you probably really want Cheeky Mary down by the harbour. She has a humanity to her I couldn’t grasp in this meal. No kissing. Catherine Deneuve, possibly. Had I not eaten a large lunch earlier in the day, it probably would have sat better with me. The meal concluded, I walked upstairs to my room and lay down on the bed where I passed a fairly sleepless night, digesting, digesting…

It’s the sort of restaurant I can remember visiting with my father during childhood. We’d go on these family holidays to France that would often include a few meals at places that he’d chosen from a French Michelin guide. I don’t remember enjoying them then. The ghost of my father haunts me vaguely at such times and he certainly inhabits me when I look at myself in the mirror. Not so much the face, the stomach, whether larger or smaller. Just as I watched his girth expand and contract many times over the years.

At around 4am, I awake to an overly long psychedelic sequence in a Western called Blueberry (with Vincent Cassel, natch) and make a spectacular and profound evacuation. I feel much better after that.

When I get home to the UK, there’s an email from Lastminute.com. Here’s the picture:

What on earth is that? They look like wind-up false teeth. They march across the plate, snap at your fingers, extrude a beetroot maw. Turn up the saturation. Only £19. Where are we eating? It’s a michelin star place, lower case, you get food that looks, well, it looks very clever. It’s £19. Do you want to go or not? Well, what’s it all about? It’s fucking michelin star, what more do you need to know? That means it’s proper. I don’t know, I quite fancied the Turkish down the road. What is your problem? Thierry Henry doesn’t eat at the Turkish, Peaches Geldof doesn’t eat at the Turkish. They eat michelin star. Do they? Yes and it’s only £19. It’s also very pink. Come on, £19! What can you get at the Turkish for that? Well, a meal for two for a start. Or, you could have the mixed grill and a couple of beers. But I don’t see how anyone ever manages the mixed grill, it’s enough meat for a family of four. There’s a photo of Patsy out of EastEnders. She must have eaten there. And Martin Jol. They’re friendly in there, they even know our names now. That time we forgot the wallet, they let us come back and pay the next day. Still gave us baklava to take home. Do they do baklava at michelin star? They do petty fours, which are a bit like chocolates, except they’re not always. Not always like chocolates? Yes, they’re like dreams and aspirations spun from sugar and culinary talent that tell us that we have arrived. Where have we arrived? We have arrived in the world and are here and looking at people and people are looking at us and all is well with ourselves reflecting through and around other people. Blimey. And so on.

Serge Julliard avait été agressé en janvier par des mineurs à la Barbière.

Depuis dix mois, il ne se lève plus seul. Pour accomplir les gestes anodins du quotidien, s’habiller, se laver, il ne peut plus compter que sur sa femme et son indéfectible soutien. Des mois aussi que ses nuits sont ponctuées de cauchemars, que ses jours, il les voit défiler du fond du lit qu’il ne quitte pratiquement plus. Le reste du temps, c’est en fauteuil roulant qu’il le passe. “Je ne suis plus grand-chose… ils ont démoli ma vie…“, lâche Serge Juillard, 48ans.

Retour au 7janvier dernier. Serge Juillard se rend au centre commercial Cap Sud pour acheter un lecteur de DVD à sa femme. Il neige, la circulation est difficile, des bandes de jeunes en profitent pour importuner des automobilistes, leur lancer des boules de neige, les provoquer, les insulter. “Déjà, à l’aller, je m’étais interposé pour qu’ils laissent tranquille un vieux monsieur qui se faisait voler son portable“, raconte Serge Juillard, qui se souvient d’un climat “tendu”. Il est environ 17h30 lorsqu’il quitte le parking du centre commercial. Les agissements des jeunes se poursuivent ça et là sur son parcours. Mais tout bascule arrivé au quartier de la Barbière. “À cause de la neige, nous avancions au pas et nous recevions des boules de neige sur les voitures, certaines avec des cailloux, poursuit Serge Juillard.

Puis je les ai vus jeter un bloc de glace sur ma portière”. L’enfer a duré une vingtaine de minutes Face au fracas, Serge Juillard décide de descendre constater l’ampleur des dégâts. “Il faisait nuit, je ne voyais rien, j’ai juste entendu, “viens” et deux minots de 11-12 ans se sont jetés sur moi. Ils ont commencé à me frapper à la tête et au ventre. J’ai vu la haine dans leurs yeux.” Serge Juillard, transporteur et ancien employé des abattoirs est pourtant gaillard, pas du genre à s’en laisser conter, malgré un bras immobilisé et des problèmes de dos. Il parvient néanmoins à les maîtriser. Mais rapidement, quatre autres jeunes, à peine plus âgés, s’en mêlent.

“Ils m’ont mis à terre d’une balayette et les coups ont commencé à pleuvoir de tous les côtés.” L’enfer va durer une vingtaine de minutes environ. “Ils ont dû être une quinzaine au total à me taper, à des degrés divers, estime Serge Juillard. Ils ont même utilisé une barre de fer. Ils se la passaient pour me taper, un peu comme dans une tournante…” La victime pense à “faire le mort” pour qu’ils cessent, mais “la douleur me faisait crier“. Il n’a même plus la force de leur dire d’arrêter. “Ils m’ont cassé le fémur et la jambe et malgré ça ils continuaient à frapper. Ils me marchaient sur les mains, prenaient même de l’élan pour me mettre des coups de pieds dans les testicules…“, égrène Serge Juillard. Leur violence était gratuite. Je me suis vu partir quand je les ai entendu se dire’finissons cette face de craie‘”.

Personne pour l’aider Il ne devra peut-être son salut qu’à la sirène des pompiers qui fait fuir ses agresseurs. “Personne n’est venu m’aider, mais quelqu’un a dû appeler les secours.” Et Serge Juillard d’entamer son douloureux inventaire. Une entorse cervicale, une luxation de l’épaule, fractures du fémur, d’une jambe, d’un pied, des hématomes au visage et plusieurs semaines d’hôpital à lutter contre la souffrance. “Malgré une opération du fémur et des progrès que je fais en rééducation, les médecins m’ont dit que je ne remarcherai pas, explique Serge Juillard. Mais j’essaye de faire des efforts…” Et s’il parle aujourd’hui, c’est parce qu’”il faut les calmer ces jeunes“.

Source : La Provence

La chèvre de Monsieur Seguin, conte d’Alphonse Daudet
mis en musique par Olivier Penard

Je ne vous apprends rien si je vous dis que j’ai des enfants. Comme tous les enfants, ils vont à l’école (oui oui, même les miens). Et comme tous les enfants qui vont à l’école, ils ont des sorties culturelles. Et comme je suis une gentille maman, j’accompagne souvent les enfants (en fait, c’est pour assouvir mes besoins d’autoritarisme et de tyrannie en me servant des mioches pour me soulager mais chut, faut pas le dire). La semaine dernière, c’était vers une salle polyvalente de la banlieue d’Avignon que la sortie culturelle nous a emmenés. Super top glamour. Et pour aller voir la Chèvre de Monsieur Seguin… top glam too.

En bref : Tout le monde connait la chèvre de Monsieur Seguin… non ? Mais si ! Vous savez, cette andouille qui croit que la liberté n’a pas de prix, pas même celui de sa vie. Qui va quémander puis obtenir une sortie dans les alpages sous réserve de rentrer au son de la trompe, qu’elle n’entendra bientôt plus grisée qu’elle est par l’herbe douce et la brise fraiche… L’histoire de cette abrutie qui va de ce fait rencontrer le loup à la tombée de la nuit, puis perdre poils et suée dans une lutte acharnée qui la verra mourir au petit matin, avec pour seul contentement celui d’avoir tenu peut être aussi longtemps que la chèvre écervelée qui l’avait précédée. Ayé ? remis ? Ben voilà, ce conte a été adapté en musique, il y a une dizaine d’années.

Le plus : C’est beau. Vibrant, vivant, poétique et dramatique. J’ai beaucoup aimé, et tout particulièrement cette envolée lorsque la chèvre découvre la prairie, c’était magique. L’orchestre était de toute beauté, la musique vraiment bien écrite, et les explications de l’utilisation des instruments pour tel ou tel protagoniste ou émotion à faire passer, au début de la pièce, bien trouvée : le chef d’orchestre a su faire passer les informations avec humour et patience. Un bon moment. Et pis le compositeur est pas mal du tout, en plus d’être ouvert et sympa…

Le moins : Faut pas aller écouter un conte qui parle d’une mise à mort sur fond de musique classique avec des enfants. Je ne sais combien de classes de je ne sais combien d’écoles, forcément, ça en fait des “chuuuut”, “rassieds-toi”, arrête de bouger”, “tais-toi”, “tu te retiens c’est bientôt fini”, “mais tu vas la fermer ta grande gueule oui !”, bref… sans les mômes, lesquels pour la plupart, à la fin de la représentation, nous ont informées (nous les instits et mamans) qu’ils s’étaient royalement ennuyés… ça aurait été plus sympa ! Oui, SMIP un jour, SMIP toujours !

Mais comme je suis aussi maman sous mon costume de SMIP, je profite du billet pour souhaiter un superbe anniversaire à mon grand qui a neuf ans aujourd’hui, qui faisait partie de la charrette de la sortie, et qui a apprécié ce qu’il est allé voir, lui (ça c’est bien mon fils !).

Et parce qu’il aime vraiment beaucoup :

Another memory of France has sprung to mind. On this occasion I was twenty-two years old and had spent the last three or four weeks hitch-hiking from Boulogne south to Marseilles then up a little to Aix-en-Provence and then northwards once more, taking in Lyon along the way. With me was a former girlfriend who remained my former girlfriend for the trip despite the fact that part of me probably agreed to go travelling with her because it might have got us back together. Our friendship was tested and transformed in those weeks and as we approached Paris for the second time we were tetchy with one another.

Weeks earlier we’d spent a night in a hotel close to the Gare du Nord railway station and the following day I’d busked in front of the Pompidou Centre despite quite heavy showers threatening to dreanch meat one point a kindlychap came and held his umbrella over me as I played). At the time we’d been excited. It was only our second whole day in France and I earned us enough money to take a train to out of the capitalso that we’d be able to pick up the motorway heading south. We were less excited by the time we’d got to Marseille as it had taken over a week to travel that far, it had poured with rain relentlessly the whole time, and on one occasion we’d been stuck in the middle of nowhere without the hope of a car, much less a lift, through the night.

Lyon

Provence cheered us up some, although we did have one of our most explosive arguments there, amidst the lush green forests and under a finally clear, topaz sky. But that one spat seemed to change our luck somehow as from then on we were constantly amazed at the wonderful and generous people we met. At Avignon we were picked up by an Algerian guy driving his fruit van back from market. He insisted we eat melons and tomatoes and bananas and anything else he could reach back and grab while still driving with the other hand. We spoke in broken English and faltering French as he drove us one hundred and fifty miles to Lyon. Our standard practice was to ask to be dropped off at one of the service stations as we could pitch our tent there, wake the next morning, wash and breakfast in the station restaurant, and stroll back to the side of the ride and stick our thumbs out once more. But the services at Lyon were slap bang in an industrial area and by the time we approached them it was about half ten in the evening. Our driver asked us what we would do if we couldn’t pitch our tent – not a patch of grass to be seen. We told him we’d probably have to try and hitch further that night, to get to somewhere we could pitch tent. He said that he would come back in an hour or so, after unloading his van, and if we were still here he would take us somewhere we could stay.

As good as his word he returned a little over an hour later. Nobody had been interested in picking up two people in the dark so we were exactly where he’d left us. He arrived in a saloon car with a friend of his in the front passenger seat. We all greeted each other like old friends and hopped into the car. Lyon by night is an experience I shall never forget. Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’ came on the steroe at one point and the provocative groove of the song seemed the perfect soundtrack to avenues adorned with endless neon lights, to back streets swarming with prostitutes and their customers, and to the towering tenement blocks we eventually pulled up next to. We were led up some three flights of stairs and shown into a one bedroom apartment. Our friends explained that they lived at home with their parents but rented this place together for times they wanted to get drunk or bring back girls. We were shown the fridge – “Eat, eat!” they said. We were shown the bed – “Sleep, sleep!” they said. And we were informed that they would return for us in the morning and show us around their city.

We spent a wonderful day in their company, hanging out in parks and wandering through the grounds of the enormous ampitheatre which was often used as an open air venue for live music. I stood up on the stage and sang a song or two, and several tourists applauded me. When we left our new friends behind and got back on the road for Paris we doubted we’d ever meet anyone more friendly and kind. We were wrong.

Paris that time around was far from the idyllic experience I’d had as a schoolboy, and not as exciting as a few weeks previously when I’d been busking. Yet another argument broke out between the pair of us once we’d been dropped slap bang in the centre of the city. It was not so much resolved as shelved when we realised food might be an idea. With something in my stomach and the fact that England felt much closer now that we were in Paris, I felt like hitching some more and seeing how close we got to Boulogne. It took us ages to find the right road and my legs were aching by the time we finally had our thumbs out. Quite soon a lorry driver stopped for us. He spoke no English but my French was okay by that time, if the person I was speaking to did not mind me mangling French grammar and pausing to try and remember words. The driver told me he had driven all the way up from Bordeaux and was on his way home to start three weeks holiday. He also asked where we were going to stay the night. I explained that we wanted to be dropped off at a convenient service station so that we could pitch up for the evening. He said that where he was going to park overnight was in a garage carpark. The garage was apparently owned by his cousin so he would sort it for us to be able to pitch our tent out front, next to the lorry.

Before we got there, however, we went through one of the most traumatic experiences of the entire trip. Ahead of us the motorway traffic was slowing down and eventually came to a standstill. The reason was clear – about twelve cars in front of us there was a road block and behind it firefighters were trying to dowse the flames of a car on fire. It had crashed into the central barriers and was well ablaze. From high up in the lorry cab we had a bird’s-eye view of the scene. There was someone trapped in the car but the firemen could not get close enough to try and rescue them. Some of the people from the other cars were actually out of their vehicles and creeping forward to get a better look. I was appalled, until I remembered that this was the country where huge crowds had gathered to see people being decapitated with the Guillotine (allegedly old women knitted as they watched and children kicked the severed heads around like footballs). The macabre rubber-neckers were in for a shock, however. The car engine exploded and bits of hot metal debris flew into the air. Everyone hit the floor and I threw my hands in front of my face when a large chunk of metal came flting towards the cab windscreen. It span off without hitting us but it seemed like a pretty close shave. All three of us in the cab were shaken up and silent for some time as we waited for the firefighters and the police to clear the wreckage away and get the traffic moving again.

We were still fairly quiet when we reached the garage. Night was drawing in but our driver wanted to feed us before we pitched the tent. So he fed us cheeseburgers and some fish dish out of the microwave and then we began setting up for the night. When we had finished the driver came over and motioned for me to come into the garage with him again. He pointed at the shelves of food – bread and soup and such like – and said he wanted to buy us something to eat tomorrow as he would be leaving before we got up. I tried to tell him he’d done more than enough for us but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He wandered round the shop pointing at things and saying ‘Tu aime?’ (‘You like?’) I nodded or shook my head and he filled three big carrier bags with stuff, paid the cashier and then thrust some sweets and chewing gum into my pockets as well. He said goodnight and clambered into his cab to sleep leaving the pair of us to try and pack all the stuff away in our rucsacks, all the while marvelling at the kindness of this complete stranger. Was it the terrible scene of the person dying in their car that had made him decide to do a good deed? Or was he always so generous? We would never know, so we christened him ‘St Nicholas’ (he had a big, black, bushy beard like a youthful Santa Claus) and fell asleep smiling like children.

Le Barberousse et l’émission ElectroChoc sur Raje lancent l’abordage tous les jeudis soir pour une Funky Jazzy Break’in Disco Rockin Party!

Et la première est le JEUDI 5 NOVEMBRE!!!!

A la barre:
Akira (Les Electrons Libres, Rah Team, ElectroChoc, Raje)
Chris Hexal (Dirty South, ElectroChoc, Raje)
Muray (Dirty South, ElectroChoc)

///Start 21h///Gratuit///Cadeaux à gagner en écoutant ElectroChoc sur Raje tous les jeudis de 21 à 22h///

Le Barberousse
42 Blv St Roch
84000 AVIGNON
04.90.81.07.21
www.barberousse.com

Back in the car, we found our way 20km west of Avignon at Pont du Gard. As the largest remaining Roman aquaduct, the ruins did not disappoint. What a site!! (Sorry, technical difficulties left us without pics for the day.)

Later, we found ourselves among the walls of an ancient fort on a hill across the Rhone from Avignon. The elevation gave us a view right back at the Palais du Papes, where we had been only two days earlier. [Insert witty coment about reflecting on life, where you have come from, where you are going, lessons you have learned, etc. __here__ ]

Car rental time again! At the advice of Nicholas, our hotel receptionist, we hit the road and explored Provence. Specificaly, he recommended visiting the following places in two days:

1. Baux de Provence
2. Gordes
3. Rousillon
4. Beaumes de Venise
5. Lacoste

Our favorite place by far was Gordes, a city composed of a collection of rustic stone homes, restaurants and shops built deep into the hillside. This fortress-like town amazed us at its architectual ingenuity and charm. We were also pleasantly surprised by a light homemade rose wine that we shared at a local cafe.

Simple and sweet.

As the post from 10/30 alludes to, these pictures illustrate just how relaxed and happy we all were by this point of our great French escape. Mmmm…

Rush, rush to station … we’ve got a train to catch!

A majority of Friday was spent traveling from the Burgundy region to Provence. Again, we’ll emphasize just how much we enjoy the train rides because we can see the changing land and city scapes. It allows us to get a feel for the character of the countryside, and the rolling hills/sprawling vineyards/small cottages gave us the impression of a quaint yet productive culture outside our window.

Upon arrival to Avignon, we started exploring the city at twilight. Its chestnut stands and fashion shops were reminiscent of northern Italy, and this made Alix particularly happy. Our stroll culminated with a visit to the Palais de Papes where we were struck with a powerful feeling of peace and joy. The architectural and natural beauty of the site almost brought a tear to my eye!

As you’ve already seen, we did take one more detour before dinner, which was our innocent escape back to childhood during the carousel ride. I’ll admit, we all had a blast being six years old again.

First of all, I feel like I need to apologize for the lack of updating lately. I still haven’t made a proper post about Geneva, which was now almost exactly month ago, or even any of the other places I’ve visited since arriving in Grenoble. Since then, I have:

• visited the French cities of Aix-les-Bains, Pont-en-Royans, Vizille, Orange, Avignon, Vers-Pont-du-Gard, Annecy, Aix-en-Provence, and Châteauneuf-du-Pape (basically, a tour of southeastern France)

Small map of where I've been in France

•  jumped off a mountain with a professional and sailed over the town of Saint Hilaire du Touvet

Me, paragliding!

• experienced the Grenoble nightlife so much so that the bartender knows my name
• attended 5-people jam sessions in the park, complete with guitar, harmonica, vocal, and dance
• spent absolutely all my free time either sitting in a park, café, or going out to bars (and, you know, that thing called school and homework)
• enjoyed an extremely delicious American attempt at a French dinner with 5 other good friends
• looked for constellations while laying on my driveway in the moonless sky
• had an awkward meeting with my tandem partner and her new boyfriend (the French are very affectionate)
• experienced my first round of tests here at the Université Stendhal - the only round of tests before my final exams in December

And now, the inevitable, I believe, has happened- I’ve gotten sick. Not just mildly sick, but doctors-appointment-taking-blood-staying-in-bed-all-day-worrying-about-my-health-and-future-trips sick. I figured, eventually, the stress, culture shock, and homesickness would get to me, somehow, and so it has. Though, I’m optimistic that if I keep a positive attitude, I will feel better soon.

However, this somewhat bad news has some good news paired with it – now, I actually have the time to update on all of the trips I’ve been taking and general comments about France and my life here! Plus, I have good drugs now, after going to the doctor twice, so I’m in a good mood, however badly I’m feeling. I won’t say exactly what my malady is on here until I know for sure (probably tomorrow), but I will say that it’s viral, so it’s annoying. Don’t worry, Mom! My host mom is taking really good care of me- although, the being sick thing doesn’t really help the homesickness. All I want now is to be at home. But, I’m thriving and surviving. Really, guys, don’t worry about me.

So, next on my adventures list:

Oct 30-Nov 1: Amsterdam
Nov 10-Nov 15: Berlin and Amsterdam (different group!)
Nov 18-Nov 21: Barcelona and Lyon
Nov 27-Nov 29: Strasbourg and Colmar
Dec 4-Dec 6: Milan

Hopefully i’ll be well (or have enough drugs) to get me through the next month! (14 out of 30 days of November, I won’t be in Grenoble. Score!)

Until next time!

Yesterday we treated ourselves to two interesting towns in Provence:  Les Baux and St. Remy. Les Baux is home to the ruins of a chateau, which we toured. Now, when I think of chateaux, I think of large, enclosed, glamorous places. I didn’t quite get the “ruins” part. Not that ruins bother me. Lord knows I’ve climbed and crawled around more than my share. It’s just that I thought our tour would be a warm, indoor experience. Wrong again. It turned out not to be overly cold, but we were greeted by an impressive wind. Provence, of course, is famous for its wind, but I guess I thought it hit only in the winter.

In spite of feeling blown around like a paper bag, we enjoyed the tour. The metal bauxite takes its name from this town, as the hills were once full of it. It’s amazing to me how, as we go from town to town, each not far apart from the other, the terrain looks so different. This rock I would call “pock marked,” gray with black. Looking out from the chateau, we got great views yet again, though it was too windy for me to feel comfortable taking photos.

Afterward we found the village of St. Remy, a warm and bustling place that thus far feels closest to what we have wanted in our Provence experience. We had a warm, hearty couscous stew with chicken, eggplant, and other veggies in a little restaurant where we were befriended by an American/British couple who now live in St. Remy full-time. They are in their mid-seventies and enjoy living in their little house in town–no Provence farmhouse for them, they like not having to get into their car! They gave us lots of food for thought for future stays and longer visits, should that turn out to be our goal. She said that a lot of the villages, though charming, are pretty dead with just one or two bistros and people who don’t speak to one another. St. Remy, on the other hand, has a lot going on, including a good-sized ex-pat population.

Van Gogh spent a year in St. Remy in the psychiatric hospital, which still exists today and which still offers art therapy as part of its treatment program. During this time, he painted more than 150 paintings (of an astounding 890 or so in 10 years). He would walk the various roads and fields of the area. We walked one of those roads, which was marked from time to time with information about his work and which paintings he might have done in each location or nearby. At the hospital, they had a nice exhibit of his biography, what his room would have looked like, and his treatment. Although he was a patient, they often allowed Vincent to leave the grounds in order to pursue his work. St. Remy was one of the few places that embraced and respected him during his lifetime–in Arles, they found him too strange. I guess when someone cuts off his ear, people get a bit nervous.

We made it back to the apartment for another workday for Henry, but the Internet was problematic yet again. It has power blips, and unfortunately, the router is in another apartment, so we can’t reset it ourselves. This morning, when it went down one more time, Henry decided it was time to go. I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t like the apartment much, and Avignon never did grow on me. I think they are trying too hard to be modern and hip, when what we want is a more traditional Provencal experience. Plus, the town is sort of dingy and run-down and sad. So, we checked out and headed for Arles, where we will spend the next three nights in a local hotel that seems quite charming.

We know that our style of travel involves a certain risk, and things don’t always work out. Last year in Jerusalem we had to make a switch–inconvenient and stressful, but we ended up in a fantastic place that we really enjoyed. We think we’re going to spend our last week in Lourmarin, which has some tourist trade but isn’t overrun, and is still said to maintain its charm. I’m not totally sure where we’ll end up, but we will be fine…just more stories for the grandkids!

I have a computer again!

Some pictures from my past month:

Paris pictures will be coming soon…

Lyon. walking out of a smoky cafe in this trendy town, a lady with new high boots . suede, medium wood hills, a light camel colour with brown zipper that climbs from her ankles to her knees. fall. she steps out of the cafe holding her matching bag and her posture as if shes the new queen of Rue St Vincent . Women seem to be happier with new shoes. proud of their new walk. their new thrill of their new conquest, of small steps, of smaller feet.

Avignon . 3 polish girls and a cigarette are sharing a table left to mine. coffee and cigarettes goes together in France, like mussels with white wine, they complement my appetite of words, a random Provance tourist who happen to like blue sky and clear air. the 2 older guys from the table on my right chat in loud english (one with an obvious american accent and the other of german origin, but could be scandinavian too) about Sarcuzi and his choice of women. they long for those blonde young students , capturing their peeping eyes through the smoky fumes merging with the fumes of my hot cappuccino.

Paris. we walk fast through the wide boulevard leading to Gare st Lazare. the Parisian street wish to sleep before the new week rises from behind new big clouds of fall. the corners of the pavement are covered with yellowish leaves that compliment my hair . you hold my hand tight. dont worry I wont go anywhere. Im yours.

Paris 2. same boulevard. a woman with tired face is sitting there looking at those last passengers of the weekend. holding their lust and their hopes and a bag of good bread. she sits there with plastic bags surrounding her, seem like a whole day shopping to me. she wears white training pants and a coat . her tired wrinkles matches her tired badly colored hair, she has several golden bracelets and white sports shoes.Her current sit is a temporary chair made of a box. a few coins shine from the little handkerchief lying next to her feet. I wonder about what it takes to become officially a beggar. too much shopping ?

Je tiens à les embrasser tous. femmes et les villes

It sounds a little bit morbid when I put it like that, doesn’t it… but don’t worry, all will become clear. I thought I should let you all know what I’ve been up to for the past few weeks (although I can’t be bothered uploading any photos, so you will have to use your imaginations).

After Nice I headed off to Avignon – for my first couchsurfing experience! For those who do not know, couchsurfing is a great, relatively new project in which people offer free accommodation to travellers looking to experience the real essence of a place, rather than just sticking to the tourist sights. So I stayed with the wonderful Marie, Olivia and David, who are university students in Avignon. The great thing about couchsurfing is that it could make travelling something available to a lot more people who don’t have the money to pay for expensive accommodation in places like Europe. I am keenly aware how lucky I am to be able to travel in Europe for such a long time (although I console myself with the knowledge that I will most likely spend the rest of my life with not much money, so I may as well make the most of it!).

Anyway, back my travel experiences… I went to a moustaches, cigars and hats party with my couchsurfing host, which was great fun! Next I headed off to Argeles-sur-mer and then to Barcelona! Barcelona was amazing – the Gaudi architecture was mind-boggling and the atmosphere at night was something quite unique. For part of the time I stayed with Mike in a squat in the mountains and we went to a very lively anti-neo-colonialism demonstration on Columbus Day.

I have been in Paris for a week now, and it has been beautiful and inspiring beyond words. My favourite experience has been wandering the huge cemeteries to visit the graves of Jean-Paul Satre, Simone de Beauvoir, Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. Visiting all the various art galleries (the Lourve!) and museums was also a definite highlight. The Centre Pompidou, in particular, has a wonderful floor devoted to artwork exclusively by women, with a great analysis of the ways in which women artists have been disadvantaged in the past and showcasing the great new work that is around. I also went to a great women’s rights rally – which gathered over 1000 people.

Today I realised that today is the last full day I will be spending in a country whose first language is not English. Tomorrow I will be flying back to London ready to go to the annual London anarchist bookfair! (Be sure to keep an eye out for my post on it). Goodbye France, I will miss you dearly!

Théâtre Royal de Namur

Ecrit et mis en scène par Wajdi Mouawad

Avec Annick Bergeron (Nawal 40 ans), Gérald Gagnon (Antoine Ducharme, Chamseddine), Jocelyn Lagarrigue (Simon), Isabelle Leblanc (Jeanne), Ginette Morin (Nawal 65 ans), Mireille Naggar (Sawda, Elhame), Valeriy Pankov (Nihad), Isabelle Roy (Nawal 19 ans), Richard Thériault (Hermile Lebel)

Coproduction Abé Carré Cé Carré, Théâtre de Quat’Sous avec Théâtre Ô Parleur, Festival de théâtre des Amériques, Hexagone scène nationale de Meylan, Dôme Théâtre scène conventionnée Albertville, Théâtre Jean Lurçat scène nationale d’Aubusson, Les Francophonies en Limousin, Théâtre 71 scène nationale de Malakoff, avec le soutien du Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec et du Conseil des Arts du Canada

« Incendies » nous plonge dans l’histoire de Jeanne et de Simon, sœur et frère jumeaux.
Leur mère, qui n’a pas ouvert la bouche depuis 5 années, vient de mourir.
Par testament, elle leur confie une mission : retrouver au Liban leur père et leur frère disparus.
Leur chemin va les mener au bout de l’enfer, dans la tourmente de la guerre dont ils sont issus.

Véritablement passionnant,  « Incendies » suit en parallèle trois histoires intimement liées car chacune trouve sa source dans l’autre. Trois destins qui tentent de trouver derrière la dune la plus sombre, la source de beauté.

« On ne s’y perd jamais : Mouawad a le chic pour tout emboîter, sa pièce est un puzzle que chaque spectateur est à même de reconstituer, tel un enquêteur accumulant les indices. Polar, mélo, tragédie, Incendies emprunte à tout cela et fonctionne à la manière d’un best-seller. (…) Du sang, du rire, beaucoup de larmes et du suspense : difficile de décrocher. »
- Libération

Réservations sur le site officiel : https://www.theatredenamur.be/saison20092010//reservation.php?id=18787

The Pont du Gard, ancient Roman aqueduct:

The picturesque village of Gordes:

Oppède Le Vieux:

The imposing Palais des Papes in Avignon:

Learned from Carcassonne:

- Let your history be haunting; illuminate it at night; let your hair stand on end as you hear whispers in dark corners…

- Let fat stay on the meat; the flavor is intoxicating.

- Be bold!  Make friends on the road! (People make wonderful companions…)

- Walk in the rain, even if it’s cold; don’t miss out on any experience because of “bad weather.”  There is no bad weather, only bad attitudes.

- Drink rose wine and eat good cheese.  Presentation of food is key.

- Some people are still really upset with the USA.  (Sidenote: Racism is not a uniquely American phenomenon).

- Drink everything in wine glasses.

Learned from Arles:

- A whistle is intended as a compliment.  Take it in stride.

- Be grateful always for your own bed, your own sink, your own shower, and — vitally — your own toilet!

- The French sure love their carbohydrates in the morning.  Tread lightly.

- Sometimes you end up at your destination by getting lost first.  And that’s ok.

- A dinner for one is not at all a lonely thing.  Eat alone more.  And eat well.

- Learn more about Van Gogh.  You might be soulmates.

- Get drunk on color.  Watch the light dance around you.  Marvel, and take pictures.

Learned from Avignon:

- Allow some time to become friends with a new place.  You always do.

- Your body can handle more than you think it can: walk, climb, push yourself!  You are sore everywhere, but you feel SO good.

- Views from on high are spectacular.  See them more.

- If the opportunity arises to live in a castle, you should really take it.  Even if you are a part of the clergy.

- People-watching is a cultural-immersion experience.  Partake liberally.

- Ask for help when you need it.  Don’t judge people based on how they look.

- Say “voilà!” more.

- Riding buses can be humbling.  Ride buses more.

Learned from Vaison la Romaine:

- Funky hotels are the greatest thing.  Always try to get a room with a view.

- Sometimes the journey is more difficult than the destination is worth.  Although, sometimes, they are about the same.

- Go to bed early.  And sleep.

- A boulengerie is a bakery.  It does not serve coffee.

- A quick jolt of caffeine can be all you need.  Then, start to hike.  All the good views are from on high.