If you're keeping up with us, you're well aware that Paris rubbed us the wrong way and left us with the distinct impression that getting out of Dodge would be best for all concerned.
If nothing else, a few months of worldwide travel has taught me to trust my instincts. Three days in Arles chased away Paris' bitter aftertaste.
And then some.
In just three hours and change, our TGV train whipped us from Gare de Lyon in Paris to Marseilles in comfort. Le train à grande vitesse cruises along around 185 mph, but I was still able to absorb the fields, vineyards and farms that fill the spaces between suburban housing developments. I've never traveled overland at such a speed, and this was my first visit to France.
As a result, I was torn between a desire to see more of the countryside and an pressing need to put many miles between me and Paris. The City of Light isn't going away, and we will return one day. It's common knowledge that it's hard to keep people down on the farm once they've seen the lights of Gay Paree.
Bullet train notwithstanding, we were behind schedule: I got hip to this fact when we trooped downstairs to wait by the exit. A burly, clucking Gaul kept consulting his wristwatch while he chatted up a few matrons waiting to disembark. There was much animated discussion while they checked watches against cell phones and cell phones against timetables; I knew before we stepped down to the platform that we'd missed our connection to Arles.
By about thirty seconds.
I queued up inside the steamy ticket office in Marseilles-St. Charles station as the line snaked along, twice coiling back on itself. No shoving, but the air was as redolent with impatience as it was with humidity. A young man with a newly pierced eyebrow in front of me gave up the ghost and bugged out in a huff. I wanted to inform him that his latest adornment was likely infected, but my French just isn't that good.
After thirty-four minutes (Liz kept track outside, safeguarding our luggage), a relatively amiable fellow at the counter directed me to a platform where we boarded an Arles-bound train. This conveyance moved at the speed of a musket ball, giving me more time to consider the beauty of the aptly named Cote d'Azur.
Our hotel was a short walk from the train station -- six minutes, even with luggage. Outside the gare, we were greeted by two lions atop pillars; the east anchorage of a ruined bridge across the Rhône built by Romans after they'd settled into this quiet Provençal town two millennia ago.
Arles was a Roman retirement village -- a Bronze Age Sun City developed for favored veterans of foreign wars, a second capital of the Empire. An ancient amphitheater still hosts live performances, as does the arena -- a smaller version of Rome's coliseum -- though you'll no longer find gladiators going at it with tridents, shields and spears. They do have bullfights, but not the bloody spectacles I've always heard of.
Provençal bullfights are laid-back affairs; the bull has a ribbon attached to his nose, and the object isn't "gore or be gored" -- it's to pluck the ribbon with a maximum of finesse. Our guidebook indicated that a particularly well-executed move on the part of the taureau would elicit the familiar theme from "Carmen" from a band in the stands, and wild applause from the crowd.
Sadly, there were no matches scheduled during our stay. I'm against animal cruelty, but as I said to Liz, "I wouldn't mind seeing a bullfight where everyone gets to go home, eat dinner and go to bed afterwards." I consumed a grilled taureau sandwich during our visit, but I can only hope that my meal died of old age.
We split up one afternoon to see what we could see, and I paid four Euros to tour the ancient arena, still undergoing some serious renovation. Again, blame the movies, but the place had a very familiar feel -- one of my favorite films, "Ronin," has an extended sequence set here. I walked around each strata of the arena, eventually ascending to the top level.
In the Middle Ages, towers and fortifications were added to the top tier, making the 20,000 seat complex into a fortress. Of all the days to have left my camera in the room! I would have loved to have shared the view with you -- the cathedral spires in Beaucaire several clicks away, the low, rolling ranges of the Alpilles and Luberon mountains, fields of swaying sunflowers and terra cotta shingles capping homes that withstood two world wars and the relentless winds of le mistral.
Also of note: until 1826, the arena was a gated community. Over the years, les Arletans built an enclave within the arena walls, and families dwelled there for generations. When they began restoring the place, there were 212 houses and two churches inside -- all were demolished.
It was remarkable to stand there and envision all who had passed through.
Most days, we waited for the heat to dissipate before venturing out aprés-midi to explore. We became regulars at the Café Americain Bar on the main drag, sipping sangria, espresso and Stella Artois while we listened to the local gossip and classic rock.
One evening as we were leaving, an elderly couple preceded us out the door, their friends singing out goodbyes.
"Bonsoir -- à demain!" one shouted after them.
The husband took his wife's hand, both walking with an easy gait. "Nous espérons," he quipped. ("We hope.")
The night before we left, we decided to take advantage of the laundromat around the corner from our hotel. It wasn't slated to close until 2100 hours, so we put our clothes in the machine at 1915 and settled in at the bar next door with sangria and reading material. I kept a watchful eye on the door.
Imagine my surprise when the lights doused and the door swung shut at 8 p.m. -- one hour early.
A thirtyish guy from Morocco sitting at an adjoining table followed me to the door of the laundromat, aware that we were in a bit of a jam. In jagged French, I explained that we were leaving the next day, pointing at the posted hours on the door with an air of confusion and anxiety. Without a word, he produced his Nokia and called the owner, leaving a voice mail.
I went back to our table and explained the sitch to Liz. It was one of those moments when circumstances were clearly beyond our control, so we did our best to relax. Agip, the helpful samaritan, sat with us and made conversation, calling the laundromat owner twice more before getting through to him in person.
It turned into my best evening in France, getting to know this stranger who offered his help for no good reason other than we needed it. We sat and spoke in French and English, our conversation covering life in Arles, what it's like to be a Moroccan in France and a host of other big and small topics. He was joined by two friends, but as the sun drew down and mosquitos appeared, they made themselves scarce.
Agip abided. He wouldn't accept our repeated offers of a drink, instead suggesting that he buy us bevvies while we waited for l'operateur de la lavanderie. We mentioned that we wanted to see his country before returning to North America. According to him, Marrakech is the place to be, but his hometown of Rabat offers little to see, save plus le sable -- plenty of sand.
Our parley was all over the map, and he helped me as much with my French as we did with his English. After some talk about the nature of work, I evoked a hearty laugh from him after sharing the American maxim, "why is there so much month left at the end of the money?" It was an excellent encounter, and I was nearly disappointed when it was cut short by the arrival of the laundromat owner.
Also from North Africa, he arrived just before nine and casually explained that there was an error with the program that controls the facility. He didn't even seem particularly put out by having to make the drive into town so we could hurriedly retrieve our soggy clothes.
If we make it to Morocco, we will toast Agip liberally with glasses of hot mint tea. If not for him, we would have had to rise at 0600 to stake out the laundromat and keep an eye on our orphaned vestments, still soaking in the machine.
Our extended laundry vigil postponed dinner, so Agip directed me to a kebab place that was open until midnight. We gave him our sincere thanks and carried our wet clothes back to the hotel, where I attempted to explain the situation to our host.
I ended the monologue by asking him if he had any hangers we could use to dry our clothes before checkout the next morning, but he would have none of it.
"C'est ne pas de probleme," he said, suggesting that he use the dryer in the hotel's laundry room to finish the job we'd started. "I will call you in your room when all is done, d'accord?"
We giddily ascended the two flights to our room, humbled by our good fortune at the hands of Agip and our able hotelier. I know they were small gestures, but they made all the difference in the world to us. About forty minutes later, our phone buzzed, and I went down to the front desk to retrieve two warm sacks of clothes.
"Vous êtes un bon homme, monsieur!" I said, giving him a half-salute. He and his son-in-law behind the desk took my effusive compliment in stride.
The next morning, we rose and shone. Our bags were packed with precious, clean clothes and we were determined to see some more of the city before our afternoon train. I left Liz at the Internet terminal in the hotel and set off across town to mail some packages home.
One very confusing, expensive and perspiration-filled hour later, I returned to find Liz at the café where we'd had so much fun the previous evening. We set out to soak up a last bit of Arles, finding ourselves before the arena in a gastronomic frame of mind.
The arena is ringed with cafés catering to tourists seeking something "authentic," a wish restauranteurs accommodate by doubling their prices and halving the flavor. We made a half-circle around the mini-coliseum, passing the room Van Gogh rented during his brief Arles soujourn -- as well as the many shops and restaurants that still trade on his name.
I didn't feel any time pressure; by sheer dint of the people we'd met, I knew that we'd seen the best Arles had to offer. So, we relaxed and took our time wandering side streets, directing a Anglophone to her hotel like we were natives, and browsing the many menus on display.
We ended up at a small bistro facing the arena that was just about to conclude its lunchtime seating. The specials of the day called to me -- as did the 11-Euro prix fixe menu.
Liz had saumon, while I tucked into a tender pavé d'agneau that was cooked to a turn. We split a carafe of rosé with our meal, capping it off with a sweet, crunchy creme brulée. Parfait.
We perambulated around the arena, stopping off at one of many tourist shops so I could purchase a large sachet of Herbes de Provençe. I've never purchased it at home, as the foodie shops mark it up like Chanel bags before Mother's Day.
At home in our kitchen, I plan to use these herbs in a meal prepared for family and friends. I'm sorry I couldn't bring you all to Arles, but I look forward to sharing its flavor.
Posted by Walter at August 26, 2005 06:14 PM