Weekend in Provence

A feast lives on in my gut. There seems to be a block lodging into my block. These are the results of the Bings’ largesse. But let’s begin with the beginning.

****

We started out in Gare de Lyon on Friday. It was the second day of the strike. The unions were confused, divided. On Thursday, apparently, all the transportation unions were aligned together: neither SNCF nor RATP functioned. This was not the case on Friday; the trains, while late, still functioned and the metro returned to limited service. On the other hand, the Cite Universitaire RER stop remained closed. But the crowds were incredulous that this was so; I was not the only one inspecting the handwritten signs early in the morning.

After buying some provisions for the (presumably) long train ride, I walked to Gare de Lyon. I passed through the 13th Arrondisement to get there. About ten minutes into the walk in that particular section, something struck me as different about this particular Arrondisement. A memory floated back from earlier in the quarter, from my history class.

It is this: if you look at a map of Paris and draw an imaginary line from the middle-top of Paris, dance around the Hotel de Ville and continue on, you have a pretty good division of class in most of the modern era. The east was the poorer, more industrial section; the west, the richer, more commercial section. Political loyalties can be deduced from the demographics; the east is more socialist and the west more Gaullist. The political loyalties are reflected in the monuments erected in each section of the city. The west features the military monuments of Pais; the east, monuments to the Nation (Place de la Republique, for example).

Knowing this fact as I walked through the 13th really unified the meaning of the various sights. This is a district that has abandoned, graffitied buildings (the former is very rare; the latter, not so much) and cranes (also rare) constructing new luxury buildings. There’s a block devoted to knockoffs wrapped in plastic emblazoned with excited Asian characters and wild colors. I saw businessmen in gray pinstriped suits and red glasses (businessmen seem to love red-framed glasses) and young kids’ clothes imitate American hip-hop culture. “Gentrifying,” is the word to summarize the visual experience. Standing on the left bank Seine, near the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, I saw this lining the river: parking lots and a crane pouring junk into a dump truck. I immediately had a vision of the district transformed, with stores perched directly on the embankments, and saw a neutral space, a waste.

Waste is not a quality I associate with the French. I’m certain the 30-second shower-spurts of the Fondation that I’ve written about previously are a way to combat wasted water, and this sort of attitude pervades. Almost all public bathrooms’ faucets only dispense cold water—hot water takes up too much energy. The buildings utilize every square inch of space, generally, except for this area of the Seine. There are some buildings, governmental mostly, but they are the exception in this area. It is devoid.

Once I reached the train station, we started waiting. Our meeting time was purposefully set an hour early, on the excellent theory that if you set a meeting earlier than you need to, the late people will show up on time. The downside is that waiting is one of the most boring things in the world, because, by common agreement, everything interesting is about to happen.

Our waiting was rewarded earlier than I expected.

When we started walking towards the train, I immediately grasped the problem, that because our train was late, due to the strike, it was overcrowded. There was a river of people flowing every which way, like whitewater, and it didn’t help that someone parked a baggage car (like on airport runways) in the middle of the pathway. Much shoving, pushing and jostling occurred as we tried to surmount the obstacle. An older woman fell, with an angry accusatory look on her face; I caught her elbow and helped break her fall. I didn’t see the assailant, but he was rewarded with a “putain.”

There are two types of ticket on a European train: reserved and non-reserved. We had reserved, which meant that we reserved a specific seat. Some people with non-reserved seats, however, had a problem with this point of law.

I had scarcely settled into my empty seat when a conflict broke out behind me. There was our program director, assuring someone that she was sorry, but we had purchased a group reserved ticket and that therefore he should vacate the seat. He refused and then she said (in French), “Well I’ll go get the controleur.” I had no idea what was going on at this time, but it seemed to get straightened out.

Up ahead of me in my field of vision, a similar drama was playing out. One of the other members of the staff was attempting to resolve the problem, but it was not happening. The antagonist was a sports-coated, green-shirted, droopy-faced man who (apparently—I could not hear at the time) utilized the argument that a) he wasn’t moving, and b) a strike is a quintessentially French experience; he, as a Frenchman, has had to bear the price of the strike, and therefore, as a sort of hazing experience to gain entrance into the club, the student affected should have to stand throughout the journey. In response, our staff member pointed out that everyone was suffering because of the strike, and that at any rate, we had a legal right to the seat. The passengers were commenting amongst each other all the while. The student had the tunnel vision particular to those who are wondering, “Why did this happen to me?”

In front of me, a goateed, graying French man on the heavier side dressed in all black had, at the beginning of the train trip, started working on his laptop, but as the conflict played out behind him, he put down the laptop and became progressively more frustrated. After something—I do not know what the trigger was—happened, he reacted: his face contorted, he placed his laptop down, and spun out of his seat and faced the agitator. He proceeded to deliver, punctuated with thrusts of a pointed figure, a diatribe so coherent, organized, forceful, angry, rhythmic and musical, that I’m sorry I did not transcribe it; the translated insults below do not capture the fury in his words:

--You are dishonest
--Putain
--Con-ard (asshole; misheard as canard, or duck)
--You are a bad representative of our country. You are why many people think the French are rude, angry, etc.
--You are a jackass.

At the end of this flagellation, everyone clapped in the train car. The irritant, who had spent the entire time with face inclined, regarding the ranter impassively, continued to show no reaction. Soon the controleurs (conductors) dressed in their gray flannel suits that practically announce bureaucracy, arrived once again on the scene. They did not make much progress. He doggedly insisted that he would not move. Finally the impasse was broken when a woman gave up her seat, somehow bizarrely weaving in that she would only give up her seat to a Frenchman.

That solved that, and the rest of the ride went smoothly. Apparently, though, this fifty-year old insect attempted to hit on the students sitting near him.

****

We arrived in Avignon and promptly boarded a bus. It was afternoon; the light was filtered. The countryside passed by, filled with fields and occasional houses. The Provencal countryside was not particularly extraordinary (but it was interesting), but the number of plastic half-cylinders suspended over the fields was very interesting—I’d never seen that technique used, whether in France, England or the US. I presume it’s a sort of a greenhouse effect.

After a long bus ride, we arrived in Arles, a small town of 50,000. At the time of our arrival, I didn’t really form an impression of Arles beyond the dark and the wind. After spending an hour waiting for dinner walking around Arles, I discovered that it was dark, windy and small in a good way.

We went to dinner, which was only the first sumptuous meal amongst many. The décor, like many French restaurants, was eclectically odd: a bodhisaatva statue (or perhaps Hindu God), abstract paintings, electric candles, and a glass heart hung above a fireplace. We got eggplant, a three-fish platter, and a good dessert. The program director, Estelle, confessed (in French) that, “Honestly, Provencal food is better than Parisian food.”

I would come to find that judging by the meals we had in the trip, this is true. However, the amount of money spent per meal was almost certainly greater on the trip than on the average meal.

****

I was reminded of the intense association cold has with snot in the morning in Arles. The wind cut, whipped, swirled, buffeted us and sliced straight to bone. In the center of a cloudless sky, the sun shone with brilliant sharp clarity. All this caused my nose to begin running, the wind making my snot cuttingly cold on the bridge of my nose, and I was returned to winter in Rochester, with the hunched walk and buried hands.

The cold dance, a close relative of the pee-pee dance, seized us. The cold dance is this: bend your knees slightly, shake the legs and keep the blood moving.

All this formed a clear contrast with the actual tour itself. Our guide dressed herself in loose clothing, with a jacket not much heavier than mine, wearing flip-flops on her feet. The houses of Arles reminded me of the Caribbean—they evoked summer. The were in light whites and browns, and their shutters were turquoise, blue and red. Van Gogh added another layer of mockery: the famous picture of the Café at night is a site at Arles.

It was far too cold in Arles to appreciate the buildings, the history, or the ancient Roman ruins. I loved the arena not for the stories of gladiators and bullfighting but because it was a shield against the wind. As we left for lunch, I noticed that a block of houses had their shutters shut. Their flat expanses were like a fortresses’. When they are open, I thought, they must look wonderful. And they’ll be open when it’s warm.

****

Lunch was a surprise. We drove, apparently aimlessly, through the countryside, before the bus descended on a solitary house. Our feet crunched on gravel as we got there. If we were in America, we’d be at one of those rural diners advertised off of a highway: “JOHNNY’S DINNER 12 MILES AT EXIT #4—BURGERS!”

This was no diner. The meal was duck-themed: foie gras as the starter and duck as the “entrée” (in the English sense; entrée in French means appetizer, which makes more sense, seeing as the translation is “entrance”). The interior of the restaurant was very homey—most of the diners who wren’t a part of a group ate in what looked like a living room, while we ate in a patio.

Foie gras provoked the usual discussion and thoughts about the morality of food. One cannot help but think that some poor duck had been force-fed for the entirety of its sedentary, miserable life in order for me to have a few fleeting moments of pleasure. The usual arguments were dredged up, including the preceding one, which meant with the response that “it is only the natural order,” which strikes me as a misplaced retort, seeing as we defy the natural order when it suits us on other occasions, why not now? Then again, I ate the foie gras, so it’s not as if I’m entirely blameless or less than hypocritical. But it’s hard, with how detached we are from our food, both in the making and the harvesting, to keep in mind the sacrifices that are inherent to enjoy what is a luxury item. At any rate, I don’t particularly enjoy foie gras, and if I never eat it again, it will probably be for reasons of lack of enjoyment, not for moral reasons, which is a pretty hypocritical, cowardly thing to do. The main course, incidentally, was spectacular.

Then we hit the road again.

****

We ended up at an abbey. The drive there was spectacular; while the bus picked its way around the turns of a mountain, we admired the vistas. The little villages perched on crags like barnacles on a column; the fields of trees; the dramatic slope of the valleys: an entire world opened itself us in our safe confines.

The abbey itself is like all religious institutions in France: it has acquired the stillness of a museum. There are a few pilgrims, but they like you reserve themselves in respectful silence. The extraordinary smoothness and length of the walls and the tranquil central courtyard reinforce this “monastic” silence. It’s almost enough to make you forget that abbeys and monastic orders were centers of activity, for production of honey and trade goods, and were inhabited by hundreds or thousands. The place was meant for the living.

****

We spent 19 minutes in the next village, so I can only devote so much to it. Apparently they make dye, ochre, at the village, and the red cliffs are vivid. I myself didn’t take in that much of the town and tried to find a restroom, always a challenge.

****

Avignon, city of popes, was our next stop. I had expected medieval grandeur, but instead, coming into the town, was greeted with modern bulk. Car dealerships and huge chains lined the streets. A McDonald’s and KFC were neighbors. This was not what I expected or wanted—we had a stipend of 25 euros. But these were the suburbs; everything would be better in the center city.

Once in the center city, after we had installed ourselves in our hotel room, we surveyed the city. The central square was promising enough: the restaurants were touristy and not expensive enough (oh, we were going to spend everything and more), but we assumed that the real spots would be just off the center square. Unfortunately, we were confronted by deserted streets and shuttered stores. The only human activity, for a while, that we saw other than ourselves was the sight of two boys kicking a cardboard box amongst one another like a soccer ball, spewing a trail of packing peanuts behind them.

We found a place: L’Endroit. And because I cannot resist an easy pun, we literally found a place: L’Endroit means “The Place” in French. The outside was spare, and the patio empty, but the menu looked good and we were weary from searching.

The interior was warm, and the light fixture threw purple light throughout the room. I had a gaffe. There was a candle set in a candle-holder to my left, on a smaller side table. I was looking at my menu when I smelled smoke. Strange. I looked down and saw the corner of my menu burning. Calm—because I’ve become accustomed to my own idiocy—I cried out “Shit!” and blew out the fire. No damage was done, besides the incinerated corner of the menu. Nevertheless, the food was good—I had stuffed eggplant, rumsteak and “mars” ice cream—and the waitress friendly despite a burnt menu.

****

Walking tour of Avignon. The Pope had a really big palace that should be called a castle. Let me focus on the real event of the day: lunch, or, “The Feast.”

It was advertised as a buffet. This depressed my expectations—the word “buffet” for me is associated with “Old Country Buffet.” There’s nothing wrong with the Old Country Buffet, it’s just that as well as we were eating, the Old Country Buffet is like challenging a Porsche to race with your Mazda.

But a few things showed me I was wrong, before the evident glory of the meal manifested itself. The first was a view of the inner courtyard of the hotel which the restaurant was housed in. It was the courtyard of a cloister: a square with a fountain bubbling in the center. That was nice and elegant. Then I caught a view of the Michelin man with his thumbs up in the window, and I knew that we would be eating well: even a guy like me knows the Michelin Guide is it when it comes to food.

From my perspective, the Michelin Guide is certainly correct. The food was spectacular; it was a feast both in quality and quantity. This restaurant was so luxurious that it had its own house wine (both quite good, so good that I actually preferred the red over the white, which is quite rare) and a variety of meats (salmon, anchovies, lamb, prosciutto), vegetables (tomato-and-mozzarella salad, stuffed tomatoes, eggplant-mariana-parmesan) and desserts (chocolate, and lots of it). The only choice was to admit that gluttony is not a Deadly Sin: the former is true, feasts are deadly, but they are one of those enjoyments that are necessary once and a while, to remind yourself of the artistry that people are capable of. All this was presented without baroque boasting: there was a self-assurance in the restaurant, that it knew what it was doing, and after you finished, you would know that they knew too.

When you eat a feast, as opposed to a meal, your mentality shifts from sustenance—am I eating my fruits and vegetables? Am I eating too much or too little?—to a mentality that is a combination of marathon and hedonist. The latter is obvious: if you’ve paid for the right to eat as much as you possibly can, you will of course attempt to eat as much as you can, with as much pleasure as you can. But we are not bottomless stomachs, even us Americans, despite what the media and foreigners seem to believe. This is the marathon mentality. Pace yourself. Drink water. Vary course size. You become a kind of athlete of enjoying eating. Like any athlete, your body adjusts to the demands of the task your mind has taken on: your stomach is oddly content with each new instance of gluttony, where you eat far more than you possibility could if you were just eating for functional reasons. I’ve gotten severe stomach aches off of less food than I ate at that meal, and yet all I had after this banquet was a weight in my stomach and a torpor—I joked that I’d eaten my food for the season, and now it was time to hibernate for winter.

We imposed penance on ourselves after that feast—Americans, especially of the upper-middle-class college student variety, never let themselves just enjoy themselves—by walking to the Pont of Avignon. The reason we did it was that it was Roman, cool-looking, and there was a song about it. Personally the better aesthetic experience was the food.

We left for the train station after that.

****

I skipped dinner that night.

****

It was supposed to be back to normal today. This is what I assured myself when I went to sleep, for my early-morning class. But first I woke up late. Then, after I left, I discovered that I had put on different shoes. I’ve put on mismatching socks, but never mismatching shoes. Of course I forgot my metro card. And I found, when I came back to the Fondation today, that I’d lost my room key. I don’t know what it was—a return to routine? But attempts to impose a routine occurred during the trip, and I didn’t miss the deadlines—I think. So what was it? One of those days, hopefully, but I hate the vagueness and catch-all nature of that excuse.

****

A news saga that can only be described as American has seized France. This is the divorce saga of the Sarkozys. Cecilia Sarkozy, the former supermodel wife of Nicolas, the President, has requested divorce. The word ‘requested’ is appropriate because the President of France has immunity from all lawsuits, civil or criminal. The President, apparently, has acceded to this request.

What makes this story particularly American is the odd combination of politics, love and sex. Apparently the couple was on the rocks a few years ago, but the Sarkozys agreed to stay together through the campaign, after which Nicolas would waive his immunity.

I’ve never heard of a story like it, and I wonder how it will affect Sarkozy’s position. I would think not at all, considering that not only is Bill Clinton is not only popular in France, but I think his popularity actually increased during and after his impeachment (although this is true of the US as well). But going against this view is an American-style cover of a fashion magazine, Elle, I believe. It features Cecilia Sarkozy staring at the camera with a look that tries to convey the combination of authentic anger and candor with sexiness. The picture actually looks like it’s the result of an interminable photo shoot; I think Cecilia is more angry at the photographer than Nicolas. The caption reads: “Our Exclusive Interview: “I wanted to live without lying.” (Emphasis theirs). This is a particularly American cover for a news media that generally conducts itself with dignity, even in the popular sphere—there are “Philosophy” and “General History” magazines available at newspaper stands, for example. Of course, this is a pretty good story and the sensationalistic aspects would be impossible to avoid. If the story were American, therefore, we’d already be tired of it, and we’re in day 5 or so.

****

The strike continues irregularly. Without warning, all of the drivers of the RER B trains decided to not go past Gare du Nord, cutting off Charles de Gaulle Airport. This was not taken with great enthusiasm. In general, Parisians seem to think the unions will lose and want them to.

****

I’ve become a regular at one patisserie. I was greeted today with “Qu’est-ce que vous souhaitez?” which is far more friendly (Literally translated, it means, “What do you wish for?”) than the normal greeting of “Bonjour” with perhaps a “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” (“What do you want?”) thrown in. And that’s pretty cool.

****

Mondays: not a day for a museum to be closed. And yet there I was in front of the Musee d’Orsay, wondering why it was so empty.

****

I was quickly reminded that I was not on vacation: the internet at the Fondation is up to its normal tricks and work has returned with a vengeance.