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Blog 10 March, 2006
- at Avignon After re-stocking the kitchen and bathroom by way of a trip to the market in Place Pie, I walked over to my favorite bar at La Place des Corps Saints, Les Célestins. Old home week there also. After a tiresome conversation with Dédé, who was already a little drunk, I went over to the Vietnamese restaurant, Les Baquettes d’Or (The Golden Chopsticks). Elder Brother, normally taciturn, had a big smile as he brought my half-liter of wine and stopped for some conversation. I kept nodding off between courses. After sleeping late yesterday I took my usual walking tour of the old city, including the 180 steps up the Rocher des Doms. When I went over to Les Célestins for a café to go with my newspaper I found Réné sitting outside in the sun. Réné, about 55 years old, was a regular at Secours Catholique when I volunteered there last year. I could never understand anything he said - he speaks fast with a thick Provençal accent and doesn’t seem to notice blank looks or failure to respond. Well, this time a friend who was also sitting there was speaking really softly and Réné told him he’d better speak up since David, a little deaf, would never catch what he was saying, what with some construction going on nearby. Which led Réné to repeat whatever the friend said, clearly and loud enough to be easily understood. And he himself spoke the same way. After an hour’s conversation he said he was surprised my French worked so well; I told him it was mutual. After lunch I was on my way to the Centre Européen de Poésie d’Avignon when the Director, Marie Jouannic, came running out of a Crepérie across the street - having spotted me from her table by the window. In the course of conversation while she finished her lunch I noted that the Tour Paris-Nice would start the fifth stage at Avignon Friday. She dug out an invitation card for entry to the start area.! So I’ve been hanging around most of the morning watching all the teams arrive, set up and sign in. Took lots of photos, including one of the wearer of the maillot jaune, Floyd Landis. March 17, St Patrick’s day - and I’m not having any part of that! After dinner I walked up rue de la Republique, the historic city’s main tourist street, to check out the fête there. (Everywhere else it seems no-one has cared about being Irish for the day.) Well, it was jammed with drunks, and since I was less drunk, even the bagpipes couldn’t keep me there. I had arranged to meet a German acquaintance at the restaurant La Fourchette for dinner. He cancelled, thinking it might be better to return home for the weekend. I wouldn’t ordinarily have eaten there alone, the place being a little high-end for a solitary dinner, but I was dressed and went anyway. Had a wonderful meal in a place that is more French than Paris. Even though it is close to the tourist area, the decor, the prices and the menu seem to dissuade tourists from getting the necessary reservations there. The place is elegant, decorated mostly with collections of forks on the walls (les fourchettes) - white linens on the tables, flatware placed just so and a staff of highly trained professionals. They were very busy by the time the restaurant was full at 9:00, but didn’t miss a trick. Courses (beautifully presented portions dwarfed by huge white china) were brought on just as needed. Passing sub-waiters cleared off tables, never mind whose territory it was. And something new - no smoking! Incroyable! The tables, typically for French restaurants, are quite close together - usually a problem for me because everyone smokes. Here, I could eavesdrop on conversations nearby, clear and comprehensible (unlike that of the younger crowd, who couldn’t afford the tariff there anyway, whose rapid, sloppy and slangy French I can’t often follow). This week I’ve been commuting to the French language school in Morières-lès-Avignon, playing guinea-pig for a group of language education trainees. It has been a fine chance to get professional help with my language, plus a good lunch. Someone picked me up mornings from a spot by the University, just outside the city walls, right in the middle of the student protests. After lunch I took the bus back to the city. They have been working on my accent Américain, without a whole lot of success, I’m afraid. But, on the whole, my French is finally more-or-less passable; I can have a conversation with the man on the street, getting comments from acquaintances like, "finally, your French isn’t too bad". 19 March, 2006. It’s Sunday morning here and I’m tanking up on coffee before getting dressed to go out to St. Pierre’s for 9:30 mass. It’s about a 20 second walk from here, but I’ll wear my warm jacket since the huge old gothic affair is a well-functioning fridge. I found a well-equipped gym yesterday 20 minute’s walk from here, outside the center city walls on rue des Sources – I’ll start using it tomorrow. Having nothing special to do I took the bus to Cap Sud to do a little shopping just after lunch; Found cheap workout pants, a bottle of the prized eau de vie, Vieux Marc du Chateuneuf-du-Pape, and some notebooks. Watched rugby for a long while then went out to Place des Corps Saints where the bar was packed with folks watching the Ireland/England game on a huge projection screen in the back. The smoke was so thick I could hardly see anything, so left to go next door to restaurant Le Pili after only one beer. At 19h30 I was the only customer to show up so early, but they know me there and put up with that foolishness after only a discrete look at the clock. Salade verte, Tagliatelli/sauce boulonnaise, and a half liter of vin du pays. 20 March 2006 At the North side of Place St. Didier stands the14th century church of St; Didier. Coming around the side of the immense stone structure is a tiny street that becomes a rabbit warren of branching alleys likely to unsettle a visitor. The one closest to the Eglise is rue Figuière. Just as the little street turns West there is a little art theater, République. (The entrance to that thing is only about 20 ft wide, but inside it can seat maybe 150.) Next down the street is a Crèperie, and across from the Crèperie is the Centre Européen de Poésie d’Avignon. The neighborhood wouldn’t be a study in incongruity if it wasn’t for the long line of big motorcycles lined up all along the street in front of the Crèperie and opposite the Poetry Center. These bikes aren’t scooters, they’re huge, shiny, surely expensive testosterone pumps. Now, at mid-day, the Crèperie is serving little delicate crèpes and other delicacies along with tea or foamy cider. One would expect to see a collection of little blue-haired old ladies eating there, maybe with pinkies upraised - well there are some, indeed, but the whole motorcycle ensemble is there as well, eating the same little delicacies. I do have to confess that these are not the types you might be imagining - 50's plus with huge guts, unkempt beards, tattoos, and gray pony tails hanging out over dirty denim jackets - the bunch in the crèperie seem in their 30's and 40's, clean and dressed as though they have jobs - and no guts in sight. But the guys have not managed to make me want to go and raise my pinkie there - I’ll take steak, thank you. I found Bar Les Célestins nearly empty when I ambled in there about 18h30 - nothing happens Mondays. A surprise, my friend the historian Jean-Christophe was there waiting for me. Last year, one night, we had a fine time with Irish Pat, and Jean-Christophe got in a lot of trouble at home when he showed up there at almost 21h00. At every round of beers we kept warning him of impending grief, he being expected home about 18h30. I didn’t see him any more at the Bar until last night. Even without Pat, we had a fine conversation and lots of beer, and it was a repeat of last year. He talked to his wife just before he left, way late, and he was in big trouble again. I was thinking that those Kronenbourgs were not very alcoholic as I walked over to Bazou for dinner, but, on top of my dinner wine, my head this morning said something about having overdone it. 21 March, Tuesday I’ve started using a gym on rue des Sources, outside the walls about 20 minute’s walk. My route takes me past Secours Catholique, next to Portail Magnanen. This morning I got trapped there by the folks I worked with last year. Inasmuch as they are always short of volunteers I got a warm welcome, and they signed me up to work in the kitchen for the breakfast shift. I stopped in on my way back from the gym for a cup of coffee, then it was on to Les Halles where I bought lunch: some radishes 0.85€, 400 grams of a macedoine de legumes 3€20, and a piece of whole grain farmer’s bread.0.80€. I had a little left-over vin du pays in the fridge. This city is old. People lived on top of the Rocher des Doms in Neolithic times. It was at one time a city-state; its 15th century walls are the oldest complete city walls in Europe. The famous "Pont d'Avignon", so-called because of the song that all French-speaking kids know, is actually named Pont St. Bénézet. Originally built in 1185, destroyed in 1226,and rebuilt several times after that, it is today just 13 arches extending out into the Rhône. It's a prime tourist destination. The other one is the Popes' Palace. This huge edifice was begun in 1309 by Clement V, the first of seven popes and 2 schismatic popes to reign in Avignon. The papacy was returned to Rome at the beginning of the 15th century. I found a poem, in English, at the Poetry Center that is a droll commentary on these things; I posted it here. Saturday 25 March It had been a little cool, grey and rainy for some days, but Thursday everything got back to normal. The sky was a startling blue; the view of Mount Ventoux from atop Rocher des Doms was magnificent. (There is still some snow up there, and on top of the row of Alps visible in the clear air behind Mt Ventoux). All over town tables and chairs appeared outside bars, cafés and restaurants - all in place before mid-day. At noon today I had dejeuner in the square behind St. Pierre’s, just steps from my little hotel. Waiters were kept busy bringing umbrellas around to give a little shade - it being a little too warm in the bright sun, since the big plantain trees aren’t in leaf yet. My warm jacket is packed away for the duration. What with the schools in a turmoil, one sees lots of kids at tables outside les Célestins, mostly behaving themselves very nicely. (If not, they aren’t going to get served..) Even those barely past puberty can get beer, wine or pastis (which is about all anyone is drinking), but I see most of them drinking Coke, as do many 20's and 30's folks. Les Célestins is about as low-brow as a bar can get. It makes Dale’s in Maumee look absolutely bourgeois. About 20h00 last night the place was rocking when Christian, the Patron, came in. It took him 15 minutes to kiss his was through the 30 or so folks jammed inside. At the noise level there my hearing aids would have done me damage, but I know better than to wear them there. Both bartenders had on costumes unrelated to anything in particular. Having hoisted enough Kronenbourgs (at 1.5€ each), it was dinner at Le Pili next door. Now, mind you, staff and customers in both establishments are seen often in each other’s places - true of most of the other businesses in Place des Corps Saints, but the restaurant is a whole nother world. Clean, quiet, tasteful (none of those adjectives apply to the bar), by 21h00 the place was full of neatly dressed folks eating very good food and drinking fine, but not expensive, wines. Factoid: They deliver pizzas here on scooters with big hot-boxes mounted behind the driver. Traffic moves, if at all, at a snails pace through these tiny streets, but the scooters can move! Inside the city walls most folks get around on foot, it being ridiculous to struggle with a car or even a bike when a 20 minute walk will take one anywhere. Consequently, one meets friends and acquaintances often throughout the day, and it’s necessary to stop, shake hands, and pass the time of day with each one. Some of the folks who give me "the glad hand" are a little scary, but it wouldn’t do to cross the street and pretend not to have seen them. Sunday 2 April Last Tuesday it was, "Manifestons!" - "Let’s march!" The general strike of students and unionists targeted a new law regulating conditions of employment for the young. Whether or not anyone understood it, all hated the thought, and enjoyed trying to bring down the government. Things got ugly in Paris but not here. Here, there were an estimated 20,000 marchers who made occasional side-trips to block traffic on bridges, etc. I saw hardly any of that since my route is hardly ever on rue de la Republique, Place de l’Horlage or la Gare Centrale. The whole thing will repeat, maybe more energetically, this coming Tuesday. At Secours Catholique Friday there was a luncheon for volunteers - a fast-day lunch since it is the saison du Carême (Lent). There was a long table set with a white paper runner, yellow mimosa flowers strewn down the center, wine glasses and soup bowls for place settings. (The wine glasses were for water, of course.) I had watched the chef making the onion soup all morning in the kitchen in a huge kettle, maybe 25 gallon size, into which went bags of frozen onion slices, cans of beef bouillon, herbes de Provence and whatever else when I wasn’t watching. Day-old baguettes, sliced up, were browned in the oven to make croutons which were placed in a couple of big blue plastic bowls. Another big yellow bowl held shredded cheese. That was actually the first time I had had French Onion Soup in France, and it was delicious. I had seconds. Afterwards, having spent a long time at the Lavoirie doing my wash, I skipped the gym and went directly to Place des Corps Saints for a café and the newspaper (La Provence). Had a wonderful day yesterday, having been invited to a small gathering of musicians and poets in Morières. The affair was at a bed & breakfast , La Bastide, which is down a quiet lane on the country side of the village. The place has a large walled garden. There are huge old grape vines and trellises, a neat patch of grass, a large collection of potted hibiscus plants ready to bloom, a stone jacousie and flagstone patios. The main salon has a high timbered ceiling and is open to the garden, Provençal style; walls and floor are stone, of course, but the whole impression is light and airy. A very talented young pianist played classics inside while we had coffee in the warm sun. The party moved inside after about 20 folks had arrived. There was tremendous music, the poetry was probably fine as well (judging from the reaction of others - I could follow very little of that). Happily, I had come prepared, and when I was pressed to contribute I read a favorite. (It was a French translation from the American of a poem, "My aunt considers her widowhood", by a Cheyenne Indian, Lance Hanson.) As for the music, we're talking about some serious classical piano as well as spirited Algerian songs accompanied by others on piano, guitar, drum and harmonica. At one point everyone joined in for the chorus of George Brassens’ Le Gorrile., an old favorite. There was a funny skit by three folks - and, of course, the inevitable breaks for goodies and coffee. When the affair was apparently over and half the folks had left, wine was produced and the party really got rolling. Music and poetry again, but really energetic. I had gone out there with my friend Odette and a retired ophthalmologist, Michelle. When Michelle finally said she had to get back to Avignon everyone groaned, since we had come in the van of a couple of the principle animators of the affair. But then there was a going-away song that everyone knew - everyone sang verse after verse with great good humor, every instrument playing - sounded like the major chorus of a popular opera! Incredible! (The song, one from the revolution, first sung in the Paris commune in the 18th century, is Le Temps Des Cerises.) Got back by 20h30, a good hour for dinner at a tiny (12 foot wide) Algerian restaurant just steps from my hotel. The place, usually empty, was nearly full. A group of Canadian women invited me to sit with them when they found I spoke English. Was fun. Another delightful day. After mass at St Pierre’s I picked up flowers at Les Halles and walked over to Odette’s for lunch. Lunch was an aperitif of radishes, olive/anchovies and good bread along with a bottle of 1999 Vacqueryas I had brought over a few weeks ago. Then a bowl of puréed lentils and the dreaded entrecote du bœuf grilled rare. (That cut, beloved here, comes from somewhere on the carcass full of connective tissue, but today’s was very good.). Salad and cheese finished off the lunch. She had made a fresh-strawberry pie which we took over to the Pierre Galaud’s. There were six of us at the Galaud’s where we sampled some excellent wines (Pierre is the wine editor for a regional journal.) There was a fine afternoon in their garden under perfect warm blue skies - conversation, with one or another reminding Pierre from time to time to speak a little slower when they thought I looked a little lost. There was music, some of it sung in Provençal, the ancient language of this region. Friday, April 7 I had an email from Pierre Galaud, last night. He writes on wine for the Journal Le Marsaillaise.
It was an invitation to join him at a
wine This was not your usual "dégustation", a tasting of finished wines presented for consumption. It was, rather, a stage in the process of wine-making, the last of a series of tastings of the individual components, "les cépages", that are blended to make the final cuvées of the Côtes du Rhônes rouges produced by the chateau. In a small, immaculate, white tiled laboratory, Grenache, Syrah and Mourverdre from various lots were graded, as they had been several times before. Then Henri and his two assistants argued the merits of various blends, finally deciding on formulations for four classes of wines. The finished cuvées were critically tasted and then confirmed for the 2005 vintage. We were offered a taste of everything, but I noticed that our advice wasn’t requested. When all the work was finished, wine production of 20,000 bottles of the smallest label up through 275,000 bottles of the largest were projected. At that point, the team began to play, free-style, with various combinations, including one very oakey young wine, just to see what surprises they could come up with. What with a lot of hilarity, it didn’t seem to be a serious investigation. What a wonderful way for a wine lover to spend a morning in Provence! Saturday, 8 April I stopped in at busy Les Halles, the big market in Place Pie, on my way home from the gym. I bought stuff to bring to a noon pot-luck: a bottle of Côtes du Rhône (after a taste; 7 €) and a ham salad (pieces of ham the size of a quarter, veggies, olives; 8 €25). Dogs are forbidden there - signs on all the doors - but if one arrives with a dog, too bad, the dog has to come in. Everyone understands the necessity. I watched one man exit the market with his little dog; he waited while the dog pissed on a bicycle wheel. I was still giggling as I left Place Pie. L’attitude française! Odette called to ask me to bring along "deux Banettes", by which she meant two baguettes, purchased at a specific boulangerie for 0.78 €. (The baguettes there are usually hot, just out of the oven; the fragrance is irresistible.) She said folks usually forgot bread, and it’s impossible to enjoy cheese without it. The affair was a gathering of a neighborhood association in the courtyard of a 15th century building; it’s now connected with the serene Jardin Petramale, which is on my route to the gym. Folks brought multiple dishes, mostly brightly colored provençal delicacies, laid out on long tables. There was no shortage of good vin rouge or the excellent local rosé. That "ham salad" I brought turned out to be a salad of pig’s snout (I forget the proper term), which I would never have bought if I’d known! Nestled amongst the gorgeous French goodies was a basket of cheese puffs, and every little kid who passed got hands full, ignoring the haut cuisine. What with their choice of food and their attraction to Coke, I wonder about their future. Palm Sunday, 9 April (But they use olive branches here.) Every year André, the receptionist, has to work Sunday, and he always reminds me that he wants a blessed olive branch from the Palm Sunday mass. When I brought him this years’ branch I got the provençal triple kiss - I’m family here. (He grinned and said, "Americans don’t do that, n’est-ce pas?") Fourteenth century St. Pierre’s was beautiful this morning. Outside it was grey and chilly; inside great arrays of red candles and sprays of red roses accentuated the warm dark gold of the impossibly high gilded structure which surrounds the high altar. The procession used the huge wooden main doors, which are a National Treasure. They were intricately carved with images of saints and demons in the 1551, and have been carefully preserved ever since - surviving even the ravages of the revolution of 1789. Saturday 15 April The dictionary says "déjeuner" is lunch. But do you call it lunch when it begins at 12h30 and runs all afternoon? Good thing I went to the gym this morning! Déjeuner was at chez Odette with an aperitif of good Chateau Malijay 2004 (see April 7), those special wrinkled black provençal olives, and little crackers, followed by a papeton d’aubergene with salad, then a blanquette of veal and finally a big cheese plate and café. The wine was a Lirac 2001. The digestif was a nice armagnac. We left the table at 18h30. Monique Jullien, the proprietor of La Bastide used to be a stewardess for Air France and is multilingual - but the conversation was all French since Odette has no English; Monique, like many others recently, kept working on my accent americain, without a whole lot of luck, I suppose. Someone in the bar last night said that I shouldn’t be all that concerned, since my accent was charmant. So there. (All I have to do is say, "Bonjour", and everyone in earshot knows I am an English speaker - they guess from England. Some are moved to practice their English - my French is better than their English, I think.) And besides, I don’t quite know who to believe about pronunciation anymore. These folks are mighty particular about regional accents. The local provençal accent won’t do in Paris at all, and that of Marseilles, no where. The locals pronounce La porte (the door) in a way that skates on the o, hits the t and sounds the final e. Anyone North of here leaves of the final e, barely hits the t, and doesn’t lean on the o so much. So I guess the best thing is to blend with the locals; I try. Its 21h00 and I’m in my little studio trying to ignore the movie (based on a work by Jean-Paul Sartre) on channel France 2 - I think I have had enough culture for one day, despite that I know a couple of the actors in the film which was made in Avignon. After having had to pay strict attention to a day-long conversation I think I’m ready to relax. (If my mind wanders I lose track of a French conversation tout de suite.) And I’ve had no urge to get supper. Thursday I spent the day at Caumont-sur-Durance doing my bit with Windows XP for idiots, then lunch with the de Sainte Preuves up on the big hill outside the village. Thursday night it was dinner at Mamma Corsica with my friend Benoît Gridelet and his friend Bernard, both Belgian. They left me with a list of the best Belgian beers and a six-pack of Leffe bleu 9°. I’m drinking one of those high-test babies at the moment; delicious! Friday noon it was déjeuner chez Odette with singer Stephane Roux, his companion Kalida and son Léon. Dîner was at the Oh-so-French La Fourchette on Anna Vicente’s tab. She is currently working in Paris in the French school system; a regular correspondent and one of my first French teachers, whom I’’ve known for four years now; she owed me a dinner. Which is another story. Lundi Pâcques - Monday 17 April It’s Monday, when most everything is closed anyway, and it’s also a feria (a holiday), when no one works and everything is really closed. Took a long walk (the gym was closed as well) then stopped in at the internet café to do some web work and get my email. While I had a café and read the journal La Provence, the proprietor apparently decided that after a couple years I was safe to talk to. Interesting how this happens; the locals seem immune to fast attachments, but, once a part of the environment, one is suddenly familiar, approachable and, perhaps, worthy of further investigation.. We exchanged names, ("Enchanté) and recent histories. Maybe it’s because I’m "a stranger in a strange land", but I pick up new acquaintances and friends much much faster than I do at home. All my regular restaurants are closed; the only ones open on my normal paths are those in which no one eats. I have been prepared to dine in my studio for just such a day (pasta Bolognese, salade, etc;) but decided to eat with the tourists on Place d’Horlage. It was actually fun. I’ve known the head waiter at Les Venaissins for four years now; it’s one of a long row of little restaurants there; Eating inside is no fun, but outside there is an awning over the terrasse area, and Les Venaissins has the best area heater of all. There didn’t seem to be many English accents there, but there was a melange of other European languages - mostly French, German and Italian, I think. I’m a bit of a snob about such places, but have to admit that my soupe à pistou and sauté de veau were excellent, although a little over-priced. With a half-liter of vin du pays, l’addition was 22 €10. I returned to my little hotel simultaneously with a tourist who needed a little help. André, la reception, offered my services - he’s a friend, long since, and feels free to do that. I took the lady, a Swiss resident originally from Vancouver, and her parents to the parking at Les Halles in Place Pie, then back to the hotel. My good deed for the day. Tuesday 18 April Today I went over to La Bibliotheque municipale, the municipal library; to find a book about Cezanne. The impressive stone building (of course, everything is stone) and its quiet garden are hidden just off Place St. Didier. When it was built in 1340 it was the palace of Cardinal Annibal de Ceccano. Since then it has been used for many things, including a Jesuit college, an army barracks, a state school, and, finally, restored as the city library. Just by the front door is a big music room with an immense collection of CD’s. An elevator actually functions; it delivered me to the fourth level Salle d’étude , the study hall. The thing is an immense rectangle with a ceiling so high that it’s difficult to make out the intricately painted designs in soft colors that have graced the timbered ceiling for centuries. Those centuries have not been good to the images and designs on the walls; they have faded almost to nothing from the light coming in from a great many windows set on high. The walls are lined with book shelves and there are more running down the center of the hall. The rest of the space is filled with big tables, fitted out with comfy modern leather sling chairs, hundreds of them but not crowded together. Almost all seats were filled with mostly university-age students, obviously hard at work in complete silence. Thanks to rows of fluorescent lights overhead, the light at reading level is excellent. In spite of its age, this is not a dark medieval scriptorium, but a light and airy workshop for serious scholarship. The books in the hall seemed to be mostly those in high demand; the librarian had so send to the stacks for my little gallery bulletin about a Cezanne exhibit; he extracted name and address and took my driver’s license as security. While I waited for my book I peeked at what some of my neighbors were working on. The girl to my right was covering big sheets of cross-hatched paper with scary math; a young man across the big table was transcribing stuff from his notebook; an older man to my left was taking notes from a journal; the air of total involvement was palpable. I was delighted with my book. A seven or eight-page commentary on the artist and aspects of his work was very interesting, but I was less enthusiastic about the content than I was about the fact that I was sailing through the text without a dictionary and with hardly a pause to consider a tricky bit of grammar. Never mind that there was some guesswork there, I can finally handle French more or less competently. And proud of it. Hôtel Médieval is a 14th century structure with some 15th century modifications inside, such as the elegant, wide, stone staircase that reaches to the 2nd floor (third to us New World folks). A tiny wooden affair reaches to the third floor. To have added an elevator would have destroyed the charm of the place; the penalty is that it is listed as two-star. Both corners of the building have ancient statues of the Virgin built in high up on the wall. Inside, like many such structures, it is surprisingly light and comfortable, with modern amenities. The high ceilings and thick stone walls make the interior effectively sound-proofed. It is situated on a tiny street, rue Petite Saunerie, which this year is continually under reconstruction. The water folks have to do some upgrading, so they dig down and cut electric lines. The electric folks come to fix the problem and damage the gas. And so it goes day after day. These little streets are just wide enough for a standard automobile; the occasional Range Rover scrapes both sides. There are curbs and 8-inch little make-believe sidewalks - it’s impossible to walk on them, but one steps up on them, pressing to the wall, to let the occasional car pass through. A stranger can spend a half-hour trying to extricate his car from the maze of one-way "streets" hereabouts, longer if he finds the way blocked for a long time by someone who had reason to abandon his car for an errand. Saturday, 22 April The other day I stopped in at Bazou for dinner. The little restaurant is down a tiny pitch-dark grim-looking street; a string of Christmas lights marks the plain red door. It’s no wonder few tourists find it - that street looks dangerous in the dark. The restaurant is carved out of a 15th century cardinal's building - all Roman arches and ancient stone walls. Tall white tapers on the tables gave the place a warm and exotic flavor. The food is excellent, and the conversation entertaining; the proprietor, Stephane, stays by me, gabbing about all sorts of things, until the first customers begin coming in about 9:00. When I told him I needed veggies he made me a big salad without the usual Jambon cru (proscuitto), followed by a veal with Italian vegetables. When he brought my café he said, "Puis-je vous offre un digestif?" (Can I offer you an after-dinner drink? I get that a lot from places where I’m known and where I sometimes bring in other customers. ) He joined me with a drink - I was wishing he had also offered to help me out the door. Some pre-dinner beers, a half-liter of vin rouge and then the digestif - I felt in no condition to negotiate the 18-inch step down onto Rue de Chapeau Rouge with any dignity. There are usually three or four folks working in the kitchen at Secours Catholique; yesterday I was there mostly by myself, and was worn out by noon. After a lunch at chez Odette, I drove her ancient Opel out to Jonquières. With the seat retracted it was still close to impossible to get a foot on the tiny brake pedal - that thing was built for midgets. Scary. Back home, Mike, the Englishman who works on the desk, was wearing English-flag socks in honor of the Queen’s birthday. When I passed by the sandwicherie, Croq-O-Pain, Wayne & Kathy were closing up. Leaving Wayne with the cleanup, I had dinner with Kathy, Lili and Michael at Carpé Diem on Rue Bonneterie. Thursday 4 May What with the superb weather and a busy agenda, I’ve lost interest in writing for awhile. Today, after spending the morning with the folks at Caumont (Windows XP for Idiots) it was another three-hour "lunch" on rue du Roi Réné. These things happen two or three times a week, and they are superb. If the weather (as usual) is fine, the table is set with linen in a garden. The usual order follows - aperitif, salad or entrée, main dish, cheese/salad/vin rouge - excellent. The whole is spiced with conversation on all sorts of subjects, accompanied by French lessons when David looks blank or get tongue-tied. Today’s entrée was a big platter of ratatouille, and the plat principale was rumpstek (half-inch thick tender beef) grilled until just a little brown while we waited. Didn’t wait long. (Our hostess checked to see that we didn’t want ours cooked too much - "cooked too much" means hot in the center instead of merely warm. These folks don’t want their meat dead. I couldn’t get away with meat like that at home, but it this was delicious and tender.) My contribution to the lunch was a round of Corsican sheep cheese I found at Caumont, a bottle of Gigondas 2001 (8€50) and a warm baguette just out of the oven at the neighborhood boulangerie. Sunday dinner (also "déjeuner", since it happens at midday) a week ago was on the Isle de Barthelesse under huge plantain trees with a view across the Rhône of the Pont d’Avignon (Pont St Bénézet) and the walled city. A place at the table there requires a reservation at least a day ahead. Getting there was part of the fun - a noon walk across the city and through the Port du Rhône, then the "navette" (a free ferry) across the river and a short walk along the waterfront to the restaurant. Sometimes it seems we have too many
rules about too many things, and that’s probably true. These people
have them too, but not nearly so many. But they have another attitude
toward little rules - like where one can park. The Revolution of 1789
must have permanently imbued them with a notion of personal freedom
that mere regulations won’t quench. One needs to park the car; there
isn’t a place but maybe one won’t be there long - so park it on
the sidewalk, completely blocking it, and walk away. (Once in awhile
the parking police will ticket it, but not There have been a couple of day trips in surrounding Provence, thanks to a couple of friends from Caumont. The photo here is of the Abbaye de Senanque, dating from the 12th century, I think, and still a working Cistercian monastery. Tuesday 9 May Communications for me range in quality from zero to OK. In the little back street near my hotel today I met an acquaintance, Jean, with whom I’d lunched with a group just yesterday. He had a long story about a friend in need, none of which I understood since he mumbles badly. I just smiled and nodded like the proverbial Chinese waitress. That was a zero. My friend Odette speaks to me as slowly and clearly as to a two-year-old. That’s an OK, but trying to teach her to use the internet is tellement frustrating. At my little hotel there was a message from friends in Caumont to call them "vers 17h00". Did that mean about 5:00 or earlier or later? I chose later, and, of course, no one was home. So when I left for dinner at the Vietnamese restaurant, I explained to Mike, la reception, my agenda for tomorrow and asked him to take a message if they called. Et voila! The message, "Nous nous rencontrons à la Porte Saint Lazare à 14h00". That was an OK as well. (I’ll get home from my little job a bout 11h45, clean up and get a little déjeuner, then hot-foot it down rue Carretière to meet them about 13h45. They’ll be early, which is not what I find characteristic of folks in this neighborhood, for whom being early seems a faux pas.) Odile and André, a retired couple (not quite as old as I am) have decided that I’m being short-changed in my contact with the Provencal countryside. So every few days they have been collecting me for a tour of hidden treasures in the area. They are wonderful hosts. Odile, who had English in school a long time ago, experiments with an English-French dictionary from time to time, but that doesn’t help much. French works with her, but André and I have to repeat a sentence a couple of times to be understood. His Provencal accent and my accent americain miss one another en passant, but we make out. Yesterday, a holiday (the German capitulation on 8 may 1945), I had accepted two invitations for déjeuner - Odette and Marie Jouannic from le Centre Européen de poésie d’Avignon; fortunately they compared notes and settled on lunch in Marie’s garden. Six of us had a fine time under threatening skies, then Odette and I left for a rendez-vous with Stephane, Kalida and their son Léon. We drove to Les Baux de Provence for an exhibit of Cezanne’s works and returned through a major rainstorm. The rain had passed by the time we got home. I had a tentative dinner date with Lili (from the boulangerie), but she didn’t call by 20h00 so I ate with the tourists in Place d’Horlage. (It being a holiday, many of the usual Monday restaurants were closed.) Thursday 18 May 2006 Yesterday, finally, it got hot here. I had been out to the village of Caumont-sur-Durance for déjeuner. It was the usual 3-hour feast on the veranda of a typical Provencal maison, set within lots of greenery up a hill on a tiny road. My hosts, Savoyards, brought out their best wines of the Savoy region: a Vin de Savoie (A.O.C.) Chardonnay 1995 with the entrée of sauced asparagus, a Vin de Savoie Chautagne 1998 with the plat principale (canard rotie and a Savoy pasta & fromage) and a Vacqueyras 2003 (my offering) with the salad and cheese. Over the past few weeks we had had several conversations about the various eaux de vies available here; my hosts brought out three of these particular to their home - each of them about 80 proof. A little of each of them along with espresso and some exquisite strawberries finished off the meal - and about finished me off as well. And after all that, there was a tour of the hill region around the village, on foot of course, under the scorching sun with nary a breeze. Between the load of food and drink, the walk and the temperature, I was pretty well done in by the time we settled in at a little café in the village for a drink. Later, sitting with several others at the little sandwicherie "Croq-O-Pain", watching the passing parade on the street outside, I remarked on the high percentage of weirdo’s one sees on the streets of Avignon. That led to a vocabulary discussion. It seems necessary to distinguish the merely fashion-challenged from the out and out nutcase (cinglé, e adj.) or the absolute idiot (taré, e adj.) who may in any case be nuts (barjo(t) adj invariable). Whatever, in a five-minute inspection of the passers by, one can spot all kinds of characters who would be at home in one of Toulouse-Lautrec’s paintings. I found out, quite by accident, that if I hung out enough attachments on my laptop to act as antennas, I can pick up someone’s unprotected wifi at my desk. Wonderful. About 50 paces up tiny rue Petite Saunerie from my little hotel is Place Chataigne, just behind 14th century St Pierre’s. Rue de Banasterie, which crosses just there, connects the quarter St Catherine with Place Pie; never mind that it’s only a half-meter wider than rue Petite Saunerie, it carries two-way traffic as far as the crossroads in Place Chataigne. There, traffic coming from Place Pie must either turn down Petite Saunerie or negotiate an electro-mechanical turnstile to proceed toward the Palais des Papes. One of the several cafés in Place Chataigne sits right at the crossroads. Along the street a barrier of planters and lush foliage makes a nice separation for the little tables placed under the shade of big umbrellas. Déjeuner there is a bon marché, a real bargain. The plat de jour is only 7€50, a salad and a pair of crèpes 6€50. I have enjoyed lunch there watching the craziness at the cobblestoned crossroad. Occasionally a car gets through unopposed, except by the waitress crossing to the terrasse. But tourists descend from the Palais and stop at the crossroads, map in hand, probably looking for the fabled doors of St. Pierre’s. They almost never enter the little café, having settled for the big expensive tourist affairs in Place d’Horlage. They add to the confusion, and big delivery vans block everything while they negotiate the turnstile there, giving other traffic has time to gridlock. Somehow, with unbelievable patience, folks untangle themselves. Monday, 22 May For the past two years at the soup kitchen, the lack of a stopper in the rinse sink has been a continuing irritation. A little flabby rubber thing keeps coming loose. No one has ever thought to do anything about that –– perhaps it's not in anyone's job description. Anyhow, Friday I decided to make a move on it. I traced the one operating stopper in the wash-sink, then inquired about necessary vocabulary (the stopper is a bouchon as is the cork in a wine bottle, the sink is an évier), and asked around for possible places to find the bouchon. The first place I went to didn’t have it, but sent me on to another –– who didn’t have it either but pointed me to the right place in a nearby alley. It pleases me that I can actually function pretty well here in spite of my American accent. (Which, I’’m assured, is in any case charmant.) Yesterday, after Lili finished her shift at the boulangerie at 13h, she, Michael and I drove to Cassis. En route, we passed along the Vieux Port in Marseilles, where a manifestation kept traffic stalled for better than a half-hour. The trip to Cassis ) was spectacular - towering rock formations visible from the corkscrew road and breathtaking views at every turn. We stopped along the way to walk up a steep mountain road for 3 or 4 kilometers to Col de Sormiou overlooking Cap Morgiou. I kept asking Lili the names of the wildflowers that everywhere made splashes of color among the grey rocks - a waste of time since I didn’t remember any one name for five minutes. I can handle herbs better - romarin (rosemary) is native to this region and grows lush and tall; thyme is another vigorous native. Cassis is a beautiful seaside village; it’s a favorite destination for European tourists. Just up tiny rue Adolphe Thiers we found a restaurant, La Table du Boucher, where we ate a fine Marmite in candle light under umbrellas. It was a polyglot bunch where we sat: French on one side of us, French and American at our table, a pair of Germans at the other side. The Germans had no French, the man only a little English - but there was a German on the staff to help them. (She told us how to say "Bonne soirée" in German, but it was too much to memorize. The Germans got the idea anyway.) Michael kept everyone amused with his normal antics; the waitress brought him a package of crayons so he could color the place mat (it had a beef butchering layout on it.) When we got back home at midnight it was impossible to find a place to park in Place Pie. The big square had all its thousands (?) of tables filled and cars were squeezed in everywhere. Leaving the car outside the city walls, we walked back to the restaurant La Renaissance where we had been invited to a party. The owners were celebrating their move from Avignon out to a little village where they will open a new restaurant. I knew many of the folks there, and by that time in the evening (morning?) no one was willing to be a stranger. They couldn’t budge either me or Wayne (co-owner of the Sandwicherie) but everyone else whooped it up in round after round of community dancing and singing. Teenage boys played disk jockey and filmed the event. Sunday Odile & André picked me up at 14h at Porte St Lazare for another tour of tiny Provencal villages. Saturday I had worn jeans and running shoes, figuring that Michael had hiking in mind. (Good thing, too!) But I was better dressed Sunday - a mistake I had made before. There was another long uphill walk at Orgon to Notre Dame de Beauregard. And even greater challenge was an inspection of ancient ruins of a village, Oppède, which was first settled in Roman times. The village was progressively abandoned when residents got tired of struggling up tiny rocky paths to their houses as well as to the church and Chateau on the hilltop. They moved down to the plain below after more peaceful times made that safer. Today the site is picturesque and is maintained by the new village because it draws tourists. My smooth-soled shoes and good pants were definitely not the best thing for that excursion. We got back to Avignon at dusk, where I found us a parking spot in Place Pie (unusual luck). We ate at Les Baguettes D’Or. Latest Entry ... Last Updated 12/28/09 Friday 26 May This morning at Secours Catholique, half the guys at the window to the kitchen wanted to practice their English (what there was of it) with me. Fine, when I answered in French the conversation improved - a little. I took my newspaper (La Provence) to Place des Corps Saints after lunch to work on the daily crossword puzzle. (No, I can’t make any progress with the French puzzle; I save yesterday’s and use today’s answer as a vocabulary builder). Toni, the young sous-chef for whom I worked last year, stopped for a chat. Not easy - his thick provençal accent clashes with my American accent and we keep having to repeat stuff. But he’s fun to talk to. A couple of groups of adolescents have been having a conversation below my window. I looked out in time to see them part. Unlike our teenagers, these folks have social graces. There are kisses (3 for everyone), both sexes, "bonne soirée" (good evening), and a pleasantry before leaving. That, in general, doesn’t seem to be the case with the Arab adolescents, whom I usually see as male couples on the street. Monday, 29 May Three weeks early, summer arrived Saturday with a real heat wave. One keeps an eye out for the shady side of the street, or better, walks in those tiny streets where the sun can reach the ground for only a few minutes mid-day. Sandals are high fashion. Lunch Saturday was in the garden of La Bastide, the chambre d’hôte of Monique Jullien in Morières-lès-Avignon. We were five at a table under a big umbrella; a pastis made a fine aperitif. It seems I’m always writing about eating. Aside from the fact that I enjoy good food, a meal makes a fine framework for the business of human relations. Friends and new acquaintances find it pleasant to communicate on all sorts of levels; small talk flows free while folks hand around platters and bowls and, for sure, the wine. Salad (as usual, just lettuce and vinaigrette), fromage (plus, of course, bread and vin rouge), and a confection of fresh strawberries finished us off by the time it had become very warm. We adjourned to the cool salon for café and some music. Thursday, June 1 Home again and life gets back to normal. Thus ends this little blog. DMB
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