Month: July 2013

Details of a Secret Provence

The heat at this height of summer wipes the words clean off my tongue. I let them go and let my eyes express what my mind cannot. Here in my Secret Provence. 

How fluid. How solid. How insubstantial yet lasting.
Have a wonderful week everyone. We are away from home so I may not be responding to your wonderful comments as much as usual but please know that they are very much appreciated, as always.

Up the trail on a forest walk

The whistle of the pines replaces the chatter of my mind, so for once, I am moving in stillness.

It is late in the morning, the heat in the valley is prickling and so we head up, leaving the chapel below…
…and start to climb. Diving into shade’s coolness…

…I hear Remi’s breathing beside me. He pulls up ahead and I follow that reassuring in and out.

The light splays through the barren branches like feathers aflame…
…yet as weightless as a dragonfly.
Another form of chapel is here, open to all and sundry…
We stop, take count…

…resourcing and readying for the next adventures on the trail ahead.
Have a wonderful weekend everyone.

The chapel garden

A sweet chapel is nestled in the valley directly across from the safari tent that we rented in the Haut-Languedoc. 1903 is carved in stone above the door.

On our last day, Hendrik, the owner of the gîtes and keeper of the chapel left the door open for us.
Inside was peace. The unadorned kind. I was moved by the skinny benches and open-armed statues within…

…and the nickel hearts marking the gravestones outside.

I walked slowly through the cemetary that held a solid current of life and joy…

…just as the echoes of faith had rung in the chapel.
Still. I wondered who the parisioners had been in such a far off place…
…and was grateful for the continuing spirit of Life all around.

A fabulous safari tent to rent in the Haut-Languedoc


Remi did it again.

When he announced that he was going to find the perfect rental for a getaway–this on the morning of our departure for Bastille Day weekend–I admit that I was skeptical. And so I started searching on my own, desperately pouring over the many files that I have put aside for just such occasions but everything and I mean everything was booked. Of course, Remi found something even better than what we could have imagined within the hour.

Peace and quiet (the main reason for our escape was to secure sensitive Ben away from Arles’ ornate fireworks display)? Check. Deep natural beauty? Check in all capital letters. Space, comfort and style? Checkity check check. Welcome to the safari tent of La Cartayrade. It is nestled in a valley surrounded by the Haut-Dourdou forest (I love that name, don’t you?) and adjoins the sweeping vistas of the Grands Causses Regional Park, smack on the border between the Hérault and Averyon Regions. 

But just because the tent is literally off the map doesn’t mean that it can’t be fabulous now, does it? Hendrik and Dorine Brakel have put the same amount of attention in preparing this space as they have for their two small stone gîtes, that are located next to their 17th century farmhouse on a hillside above. We felt every bit as welcomed as we have in any luxury tent in Africa!
Light pours through the tent with a comforting glow. Antique and modern pieces make for a quirky mix in the decor, just as we like. The books, alas are in Dutch as the couple are from the Netherlands although they are both fluent in English as well and truly lovely. We spoke with them both at length and I found their pioneer spirit very inspiring.
The bed was supremely snooze-worthy but city folks be warned! The birds in the forests start chirping early! I had to giggle at my “What is that?” reaction the first morning upon being pulled from my slumber but oh what a fine symphony they compose. I could and did listen to it for hours.
And yes, for those of you that have little ones…
…No Ben and Kipling were NOT allowed on the bunk beds.
The facilities are in a small building just beyond the porch, all the better to get a last glimpse at the stars at night. Hendrik explained that he purposefully kept the bark on the planks to give it character… 
…A charming touch that was repeated on a shelf in the fully stocked kitchen…

…one we barely put to use as we had only one thing on our minds…
…BBQ! We brought our own gas unit as anything with a smokey flame is forbidden in this forest region. We spied helicopters passing overhead from time to time, surveying that all was well.
It was. Most certainly when I was curled up in this 1920s style beach chair reading the absolutely phenomenal book “Flight Behavior” or watching the plethora of butterflies. I have never seen so many in one place in my life. 
Steps tumble down the hill to a shady clearing crossed by a stream. It was unfortunately dry during our visit but Hendrick says that it is clean enough to drink by the handful. The view from the porch opens up on to a chapel (more about that soon)…
…and beyond? 
Well, let’s just say that our eyes found the same peace that we held in our hearts.
Gites de Cartayrade
Hendrik & Dorine Brakel
Cartayrade, Rials
34260, Avène, France
http://www.cartayrade.com
hendrikbrakel@nordnet.fr
Tel.: (33) 4 67 97 01 09
Cell: (33) 6 85 36 20 74
Rates (including tax and bedding but not towel supply):
450 Euros per week in July and August
375 Euros per week in June, September and October
Special rate: 299 Euros per week in September
Contact them directly for availability and pricing on stays of less than a week.
There are excellent driving directions on the website.
This is truly an exceptional, hidden and unknown spot, perfect for anyone who loves nature. I can imagine my writer friends coming to the safari tent on retreat as well. But there are things to do and see in the area and I will follow up this post with more of our adventures during our wonderful time in this far-off corner of the Haut-Languedoc.

Under the Overpass


Remi got the call. It was time to go. Il avait une photo à faire sous l’autoroute mais sur la Rhone. It doesn’t matter that it is Friday night in a professional photographer’s world. And so we loaded up the equipment and went. Me to lend a hand as I do from time to time. Albeit a tad unwillingly as I was in the midst of typing something else but I let it go and go.
Under the bridge that is an overpass, on the banks of the “other” side of the Rhone, there is a camp of gitanes this summer. They are different from the other Roma also living outside of town but linked in having a life tightly woven together and yet set distinctly apart. We pulled up fast as Remi was catching at a particular moment and then stayed as it was missed. 
I saw so much.
Burnt cotton candy twisted hair topping a smudge-faced girl in a pink jumper. She draped herself belly-down along the guardrail to watch us with bored eyes. Dogs being forced out of puppydom by a band of chasing boys. A four year old wandering pantless amongst the weeds. Lanky men with their arms folded behind their backs, walking slowly over to the Rhone to let their gaze follow the drift. A movement that was repeated like the pull of a clock. Camper doors slammed repeatedly to follow a verbal point then silence. And then guttural voices rise again. Then fall. A shiny black Labrador strained at the end of his leash, paws in the air, barking at all who crossed a line known only to him. A platinum Amy Winehouse haired teenager with eyeliner to match drifts over with her little brother in tow to look over our shoulder. She has a furry blanket wrapped around her, she nods so he will ask us, “What are you doing?” They make sullen flip flop slaps as they go but a matriarch made of leather glides silently up behind us to offer a religious medal, something we know to refuse but in doing so with kindness, we are welcome. Across the Rhone, the children’s friends are called out to with corny jokes as their family bathes in what I had thought was les egouts, the sewers but Remi assures me is the runoff from an underground canal. They knew that and are camping out at the coolest spot in all of Arles. So many degrees below what we feel just ten minutes walk away. And because we are directly under the overpass, we don’t hear the cars at all. Something I can’t say in the least for our apartment, which at times, feels like we are being assaulted by sound that is not our own. Two young but not so young girls come back with a sac from the mini-market, baguettes poking out the top. Dinner is made and ate on a table leaned against the massive concrete pillars, quietly with just the tindrom of cutlery. No parents involved.
The light is its light in Arles, proud macho town. So we all watched it. Our Friday night. As we left a woman that we had not seen raised her hand in a silent aurevoir.

Enchanting Melody with Mademoiselle Gardot, Arles

As the temperatures and crowds rise like a slow-motion wave, I can feel my patience wane. It is High Season in Arles. And yet, despite herding my two puppers between slack-jawed families that spread across our narrow streets Western-style and gingerly stepping over dropped strawberry ice-cream cones, there is a balm that goes right to my soul. Music. 
This year marks the 18th edition of Les Suds à Arles, one of Europe’s most important world music festivals. And when I say world, it is as in scan the globe–from Senegalese rappers to a Balkan “rock star,” a singer from the Mongolian Steppes with a four-octave range–not to mention a group of wacky Mad Maxian horn-blowers that Remi tried to drag me to hear in the mosquito-filled Camargue. Um, no thank you, sweetheart.
For I had another style in mind entirely–the unique voice of Melody Gardot. Like smoke without scent, she is a conjuror. Those of you have been reading Lost in Arles for some time might remember hearing her work on various posts for she is one of my favorite contemporary artists. We had missed the opportunity to see her perform in Sête (an incredible open amphitheater overlooking the sea) two years ago and so pounced gleefully when this concert was announced months ago. It has been something that I have been looking forward to for ages, a Christmas present in advance. And yet a few hours before the concert, storm clouds hovered and a few warm splashes of rain evaporated into the concrete. Would my expectations be dashed? 
No, no, the skies were kind and the music…divine.
We climbed to our traditional post in the very last row of the 2,000 seat Roman amphitheater (finished in roughly 12AD) and settled. Despite my knowledge of the rickety ascent, I always seem to wear something utterly inappropriate for the task. It has become my own little inside joke. 
A happy hush descended on the spectators as Silvia Perez Cruz, the opening act, took to the stage. Immediately, we all knew that we were hearing someone with an immensely expansive yet poetic talent. She has already conquered her home country of Spain with a seamless mix of Latin music–from habaneras to fado, folk and Cuban–and she is most certainly une vrai découverte. 
She lead the audience to relax easily into the evening.
I love listening to the chatter of the entr’acte. Swifts raced through the darkening skies while children danced in the open orchestra–quite a change from when that marble floor had been preserved solely for the nobles with their moveable chairs during Roman times.
From our faraway little corner, we spied the glow of the Artist’s tent, directly under the tower of the St. Trophime Cathedral. As the lights dipped again and the musicians took their places, I was surprised to see a delicate figure being carried across the uneven terrain in the dark to the stairs leading to the stage. And then I remembered Melody Gardot’s terrible accident in which, after being run over by a driver who had sped through a red-light, she was forced to go through many operations and a year of lying on her back in a hospital. There, she taught herself to play guitar (yes, on her back) and started composing music as a form of therapy. Despite her recovery, her perception of light and sound has been permanently effected, forcing her to wear dark glasses and to create music that started as a whisper then a hum.

How far she has come. Listen.

I know that being moved by her story is part of what initially drew me to her music. But while I still have enormous admiration for her determination to become such a fine artist (and someone who continues to be authentic in her life choices, which is important to me too), I can reassure you that there is zero thought on her past when she performs, rather she explodes in the present. The French word envoûtant best describes her presence and that voice, that voice that charms while singing or bantering in franglais.

Such a beautiful evening with more than a little hint of magic.

In one of her final songs before the encores she promised in a refrain, “I’m gonna go but I’ll be back someday.”
I hope so, Mademoiselle Gardot…
I’ll leave you with “Baby, I’m a fool,” a song that she introduced by saying that it was “a good song to sing while in the bathtub”…Lovely, non?
Enjoy…
And I do apologize for the photo quality on this post but I really just wanted to enjoy and so alas, relied on the iphone, rather than be caught up in anything other than just the joy of being right there, right then!

Oh! PS. I nearly forgot to mention that I did a guest post for the lovely food and travel writer Ann Mah for her Tuesday Dinner series that appeared yesterday. If you feel so inclined, you may find it by clicking the link: Here.

The Charm of a French Country Wedding, part two

I touched the tops of the creamy roses to soak in their faint papery perfume. We had been too late to offer them at the church where other bouquets dotted the altar and so they were nestled against my knees. I smiled, thinking back to the ceremony echoing through the tiny, ancient church. How quickly it  was over and our friends, Nathalie and Laurent were now married. 

With a diva-worthy wave, Nathalie beckoned le cortège to follow their beribboned convertible and half of the village of Manou watched as we took our leave…

…through a countryside perfect for rolled-down windows and fingers splayed in the wind. The kind you can shout “Hello!” to for no reason.
With more than a dose of relief, we unfolded ourselves out of our lunch-box rental (a Ford!) and breathed in the open expanse of Le Moulin St. Agnes. Light shimmied through the leaves and across the lake, hinting of the evening to come.
For le vin d‘honneur, champagne flutes were presented to each new arrival…
…along with a warm welcome from the beautiful bride!
Ah, but there was also an oyster bar to tuck into…
…along with a truly impressive variety of hors d’oeurves and delicately layered verrines, spoons of smoked salmon, a mountain of crudités…
Brochettes of  marinated chicken and shrimp were grilled to order à la plancha…
…and of course, this being France, there was much silky foie gras to be consumed…
…wines to be savoured…
…and even a tiny mini foie gras burger on a brioche bun to be inhaled tout d’un coup! Ah yes, thank you, don’t mind if I do.
As I am shy, I let my camera do the talking as I strolled the grounds, listening to the relaxed chatter of Nathalie and Laurent’s friends…

…and laughed as with a “Whoop! Whoop!” they took their turn for a boat ride across the lake.
So many friends, so many loved ones, gathered to celebrate. 
However, my nerves did a little twinge as we were called into dinner. Oh my, was a stuffy, more forks than you can count, prisoner of the table type of experience ahead of me? Would I be trapped next to strangers that would raise their eyebrows sky high at my accent?
I needn’t have worried. Within minutes, napkins were being twirled in the air, accompanied by boisterous hollering and pounding on the table. I knew that I was in the clear. The evening was by all accounts…really…fun…a word that is not so applicable in France most of the time! While the dinner itself was certainly excellent (émincé de veau accompagnée d’une verrine des champinons), what fascinated me the most was all of the delights sprinkled in between the courses–sing-a-longs (of which yours truly did a wee solo for the end of “Stand By Me”), musical jams (oddly called un boeuf de musique in French. A musical cow?) games, and seriously funny toasts. Unbeknownst to me, apparently weddings are where these folks really let their hair down.

Nathalie and Laurent beamed even brighter than their spectacular cake. 
And then they opened le bal. Their First Song?
Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky”
Now seriously, how fabulous is that?! It was exactly what I had been looking forward to dancing to (I know, I know, expectations…) and so we gave it our all. Then, I stuck to my motto as a former NYC Disco Baby–“Always Leave The Party When It Is Good”–and so that is what we did, bowing out immediately after, just past 12:30am. 
At  the brunch the next day (a relaxed affair sweetened by several chansons française delivered by an 80 year-old relative), we discovered that the dancing had lasted until 4 and that dawn was welcomed by many a guest.
Nathalie et Laurent, vous avez partagé votre amour et votre joie de vivre avec nous tous! And that, my friends is the Charm of a French Country Wedding. Long may they follow together on la route du bonheur…
My sincere thanks to les mariés for letting me share their big day with you all and I know that they will appreciate the lovely wishes that many of you have passed on to them.
Have a wonderful weekend everyone…

Expectations

There is such a fine line between dreaming and pushing the dream. As someone whose mind is roaring and running from the moment my lids open to the instant when my brain coaxes them to stay closed, I do a fine amount of talking in my head. No, not of the Sybilaphile kind–at least not yet–but rather a wishing and wondering, dashing and retreating dance. “What will the afternoon hold?”, I wonder while running through the days list in my head…and automatically, ideas are attached to each item until it effectively becomes a Wish List. 
I remember telling my “Uncle” Tom (who is related to me only because he has known me “before you were born”) at the brass bold age of thirty that I had it all planned out. I was going to keep working “one hundred percent” on my career for this many years, meet the man of my dreams at such age while following up by hopefully having one child (only) within the next few years. How sure of myself I was! He looked at me calmly and said, “Life doesn’t work like that, Heather.”
How right he was. The unpredictability of life has often left me delighted, offering something beyond what my pirouetting imagination could have served on a silver platter but it has also left me in tears of utter disillusionment. And yet I keep needing to learn it on levels little and big. 
Buddhism reminds us that expectations can only lead to disappointment. So when is “looking forward to something” different than trying to make a moment other than what it is? I want things to be exactly how I hoped but of course that happens so rarely. This note is a little reminder to myself to just be present and push away the smokey clouds that pollute with their noise of braying to be heard. Just breathe. For there is nothing but peace in our heart rising and falling and cool air splaying over our lips with each exhale to know that all is well. All is well.  
Everything is fine and dandy, I just caught myself in the act as storm clouds have gathered before going to see Melody Gardot in concert, my little dress put aside for something more reasonable and whining on the verge of escaping. I wondered if anyone else does the same…

I will be back to the wedding festivities on Friday. 

The Charm of a French Country Wedding

Un mariage à la française? I didn’t know what to think, how it could be, how I should behave. The questions that rolled around my head made me slightly nervous until Remi reminded me that I was not, actually, the one getting married but simply a guest. 
How excited I was to have been invited, for Nathalie is one of the very first people that I had met in France. Remi and I both watched as she climbed up and up the corporate ladder, all while keeping her truly radiant personality intact. 
When she first told us about Laurent, she couldn’t contain her smile. We understood why after having met him and jumped for joy–literally–when she announced her engagement to him. Would we come to the wedding? Mais bien sûr!!
Up to Paris by plane, down through Burgundy wine country to see family, tracing the Loire and over to Chartres…all under a cold rain. And yet, within mere hours before we were to meet at the church in the tiny village of Manou (while Natalie is an urbanite, her parents live in this bucolic corner of the Perche region), the sun broke through, victorious.
We arrived just in time to see the couple emerge from le Mairie or town hall, where the mandatory civil ceremony was performed. 
It was only a quick dash across the street to the churchyard…
…where friends and family took turns giving bisous and saying hello.

I felt the energy of anticipation gather as the priest emerged to call everyone into the church…
…and a flutter of my heart as Nathalie entered it graciously on her Father’s arm.

As Remi was the official photographer for the ceremony, I sat in the back and took it all in…the warm and steady voice of the priest, the silvery notes of a flute, the helpless fit of giggles of three parisiens in the pew beside me.
It was simple, genuine and deeply moving.

Afterwards, we gathered at the entry to wait, each with a fistful or rose petals or rice to throw…

…the bells rang out…

…and the Newlyweds did not disappoint.
A circuit of happiness…
…shined through us all…
…zapping in celebration…
…for the inherent hope of Love.
Félicitations, Nathalie et Laurent! I wish you many, many great years together ahead.
I hope you will join me for my next post as the wedding dinner was surprising and wonderful…
Have a wonderful week everyone.

In Burgundy wine country

“Dream a little dream with me…”
Those of you who have been visiting at Lost in Arles for any length of time know of my fondness to let my imagination take the reins, most certainly when picturesque villages are involved and definitely when I am referring to our Secret Provence. How ready I could be to pack my bags and change address! A new adventure! Just give me the means and I will go…
And that is exactly what I am writing about today for my guest post at Daily Plate of Crazy.
But I had a similar swell of welled over temptation at Saint-Bris-le-Vineux in Burgundy wine country as we stopped to visit family on our way to the wedding. In the amount of time it took for Remi to pick up a Chablis and a Côte d’Auxerre at the lovely Domaine Bersan (below, doesn’t this remind you of Sharon Santoni’s beautiful home?), I had covered the entire village at a fox-trot (yes, I know it is dog-trot but foxing took my fancy), snapping away like an angry turtle until I arrived back at the car victorious with my camera held aloft as dreams had been caught by the tail. 
So many closed up lovely little homes just begging for a little love and attention…

…so little time. For we were already off, streaming through the rolling hills and tracing the Yonne River and then with a woosh, we had dived into the Caves de Bailly Lapierre.
The caves are in an underground quarry that feels a tiny bit like entering the tunnels of The Lord of the Rings…
…just thankfully ever so much friendlier!

This domaine is known for their crémant de Bourgogne, a sparkling wine that I adore.
Ask the goddess of the grape, she’ll tell you. A fine crémant beats many a champagne hands down.
And so a toast! To dreaming and living our dreams, to health, happiness and hope!
Have a wonderful weekend. But before you go, you might want to pop over to the guest post that I mentioned, it is just over here...Cheers…