I have been fighting against Perfectionism for most of my adult life. My Dad pushed it upon my Sister and I so much that it is still a knee-jerk reaction to try and please or “do it right” out of fear that it was the only possible way of being loved.
That began to change when I left behind my life in New York City and started to travel. I had no idea what I was doing, I could know longer incarnate the peculiar glamorous role that I had scripted for myself and carefully curated. As that facade cracked open, I began to see less tightly and more lovingly, including, slowly, towards myself. And when I moved to Arles in 2005, I was surrounded by a forever echo of that awakening. Wabi-sabi couldn’t be more prevalent in this wondrous old town and that is precisely why I love it so. Complicitly, it let me be, well, just me.
And so if I announce here the title of “One Perfect Day,” it is packed with caveats gallore. I mean, rather simply, a series of events that felt absolutely right for me, all packed into less than 24 hours. How good to breathe without the fear of the current state of world affairs shortening my breath but rather to just be present, minute to minute with hope in my heart.
The day began officially once the coffee had kicked in, as per usual (I am not held accountable for anything that comes before). And it was greatly needed as I was rising early for once, half-stumbling, half-running to take the train to Arles. For I had a job to do, yes another beyond finishing after midnight at the hotel where I work evenings as a receptionist. It was to be only my second walk since COVID had struck but I wasn’t nervous, only content. And when I met the women I would be walking with, I could see the curiosity in their eyes and knew that we would be a good fit.
I am so proud of my historical walks in Arles. That particular ‘p’ word is one that I use rarely, a leftover from the other self-exclusionary one, perfectionism. But I worked hard while preparing them and still continue to do so as our notion of what history is actually evolves along with the galloping advance of science. I do my research but I also laugh – the walks are the best of both worlds between my previous careers as actress and journalist. The biggest challenge is that I simply cannot ever shut up until my guests eyes start to glaze over and then I know that I have gone too far. 2500 years of history is a lot to swallow in one go.
As this was a whirlwind of a walk at only a scrappy hour and a half in length, that never seemed to be the case and it was with warm thank you’s (and even a smattering of applause when I finished) that I walked away with a glad heart. For it had been some time since I had really done my own private walk of Arles, just for me. So I had to restrain myself from dashing to favourite streets, each packed with endless memories or anecdotes. It was a “Best of” for this once girl who was lost in Arles. Then found. Then lost again.
I arrived at Cocorricco (named after the French version of a rooster’s crow) nearly exactly at noon, which is considered quite early in our beautiful Provence. Their menu of the day appealed and I crunched through my spicy spring roll while burning my fingertips, then slurped up the sauce of my vegetable stacked fish, finishing with a crack of bread and a second glass of rosé. Satiated through and through, I left the rough and ready Arles for the winding streets of a more elegant Avignon.
Home again, I slept for hours. Such a luxury unto itself. A sleep without troublesome dreams to touch me. With a knock at the door, my Honey had arrived, smartly dressed as he likes to be. I followed suit (although not quite literally, a swaying dress instead) and was soon tottering the most dangerous cobblestone street in Avignon while balancing on platform espadrilles. Dinner at Le Vintage was like a little “Welcome Home” party. I have written about them often over the years and they have not slipped in their hospitality at all. Sebastien, the owner, had put a bottle of my favourite Famille Perrin Côte de Rhône to chill in advance of our arrival. I shyly introduced these old friends to my handsome companion and it felt natural, simple, real. We ate well and heartily for that is what Le Vintage does best and were delightfully surprised to find out that when the bill came, there was none. And yet, there was no time for long rémerciements for the tick-tock was clicking and we were soon off…to the Opéra.
It was to be his first classical music concert and yet we were both equally excited. The headliner of the bill was Jordi Savall, whom I had long wished to see play live. Surrounded only by two other musicians, with grey hair and beards all, he brought to life le Moyen Age effortlessly until there was no longer a sense of time beyond the rise and fall of the notes. We leaned forward on the brass railing, drinking them in. Later, I curled my head against his shoulder, never closing my eyes. I listened with a gilded appreciation, like the massive chandelier winking in the dark overhead.
The concert and dinner had been a surprise on my behalf and yet the evening was not yet ready to be done. “I don’t know if this will work, but are you up for trying one more thing?” I asked as the crowds swirled onto the Place de l’Horloge. He nodded with that smile that never fails to make me swoon and we were off, down a tiny path hewn between the rock solid foundation of the Palais des Papes.
He had often heard me speak of La Mirande. This five-star hotel and Michelin-starred restaurant had won my heart from the first time I had dared pass through its glass doors. “Is it still possible to get a drink?” I asked at the reception with what I hoped was a winning grin. It was. We settled in to a settee for two not under the eaves of the atrium but in my favourite dark corner of the plush satin-walled bar. And we had it to ourselves. Nary a guest in sight. As we sipped, we quieted. With hands entwined, all that was left of this One Perfect Day was the most important aspect of all, beyond Beauty or History or Culture. One that arrived naturally and entirely on its own. It was – and is – our Love.
