Author: Heather Robinson

Call me jaded. Spoiled if you prefer. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate Arles’ many amazing Roman monuments, I adore them. It is just that I spend so much time amongst them that I tend to not think on their history; I don’t carry it around in my pocket. I pass more time admiring their bones. Just another extension of my love for patina, I suppose. Not to mention that I find in their age a sense of comfort and calm for they are worn but beautiful.

At the entry to the Théâtre Antique this morning, the pin-striped blonde gazed up at me with an erased expression as I handed over my passport as well as my free entry pass to the monuments that all Arlesians are entitled to have. She handed it back to me in silence. “C’est bon?” I finally stammered. She blinked. “Oui.” I do hope that she is more charming with her paying visitors. 

Ben was with me, welcome as long as he is on his leash and soon he was scrabbling ahead over the pock-marked plaza encasing the arched remains.  The Antique Theatre was edified in 1 BC as part of an effort by Emperor Augustus to develop the urbanization of what was then called Arelate. And what a project it must have been. It was one of the very first such Roman theatres to be built entirely in stone and the cavea or hemicycle could hold ten thousand people! For those of you that know the theatre in Orange, it was just as large, if not even more ornate in its presentation. Alas, time was not nearly as kind to our theatre. By the 5th century AD, the stone was quarried for the construction of a Christian basilica, one that was located where St. Trophime rises today. Along the back wall of the stage, hundreds of columns lined three levels, only two of which still stand. Of the statues that filled the walls niches, happily, the Vénus d’Arles was dug up in 1651 and offered to Louis XIV. Today, she is one of the Louvre’s stars. 

By the 7th century, the walls they were a’tumblin’ down. Housing for the towns ever expanding population spread across the area. Miraculously, the Jesuits established a college, one later occupied by the Souers de la Miséricorde, in which the two columns were left untouched in a courtyard. Further archeological finds were added to the small garden and it was opened to the public from 1755-1789. The theatre was slowly uncovered starting in 1828 thanks to the efforts of then mayor, the Baron de Chartrouse, who was the first to rally around the importance of saving Arles’ historic monuments. In 1981, it was listed on UNESCO’s World Heritage List, guaranteeing its protection well into the future.

Can you hear the Roman ghosts calling in the orchestra? As much as this former actress would like to think so, I have to say no. It is just the twittering of birds and tourists that fill the air. But what a bunch of beautiful dust. While a group poses on the proscenium of the stage, Ben and I climb up to meet the sun. Ben loves this, me less so but it is worth it for the breathing space at the top, the view opening beyond and on to the neighboring Arena. Amazing to think of the cries of the actors mingled with the shouts of the gladiators in Roman times. The audiences wandering between the two in an overstimulated daze.

I am always moved by the details, the carving that has been nearly smothered by the wind, column bases giving only the barest of hints of former glory. Amazing to imagine its height doubling upwards from where I sit. As I have mentioned in previous posts, the theatre is still used for many events. But that is superficial, just traipsing figures, passing shadows. So in the morning light, I sit with my sleeping dog and talk to the stones, hoping that they have some wisdom to share with me.

Flowers and friendships shake each others hands, don’t they? They are virtual gifts that we can send across the world or very real gestures that melt the hearts of our loved ones and give consideration to a new acquaintance. Offering something alive is never a haphazard thing even in our casual, frayed at the cuff society. 

Not too long ago, a couple that we adore finally came to see our new apartment. As my copine is German, she brought a traditional house-warming gift from her homeland, for, with a little bread and salt, one already has all that is needed. I loved the little bit of green watercress and the carefully tied bow–it made a thoughtful gift even more so. Her charming husband, who is most certainly French, showed his roots by offering the always appreciated bottle of Champagne–cold and ready to pop!

In turn, I had bought fresh flowers to prepare for their arrival, for nothing makes friends more at ease in a new space than gorgeous blooms to gaze at. And yes, Remi did his part too–hence the wine lined up on the side table. An exchange of flowers and a toast to the importance of creating lasting bonds. Salut!

This weekend is the Journées Européennes du Patrimoine in France, the European Heritage Days. This always fascinating event opens the doors to the public for some of France’s most exceptional historic homes, museums and sites. It is an opportunity to discover and appreciate the best of France’s heritage and long history. Here in our region, it was an extra special day as Remi’s photographs for an archaeological dig are being exhibited on the site in Nimes as part of the festivities. We both were so thrilled to see his work featured as part of this event. I am always so proud of my incredibly talented honey and was grateful that they included his accomplished resumé alongside the photos. 

As it is indeed a small world, albeit a wonderful one, my friend Frederique was the graphic designer involved in printing up Remi’s photographs onto waterproof canvas. She works for INRAP, the National Research Institute for Preventive Archaeology. While much attention is given to the most glamorous aspects of archeology–Jewel bedecked mummies! The fossils of ancient man!–there is a real need in countries such as France to study land that is being developed for modern uses.

The site in question spreads out over 1000 square meters in what is today the heart of downtown Nimes and will become a residential complex. In Roman times, it was near the Gate of Augustus and as with many major transportation hubs of the period, was frequently used as a mausoleum. As my friend Marie (whose fantastic hospitality I have written about here) worked on this dig, she took me on a private tour of the site, explaining it to me with patience and professionalism. Marie, like the rest of the team that I met, loves what she does. 

Interestingly enough, it seems as though the living and the dead existed side by side. Multi-tiered esplanades sprawled away from dolia or giant vats used for storing foodstuffs that neighbored elaborate private tombs! Yeesh. Complicated, those Romans. The most ancient remains date to 2 BC. In the 13th century, the Carmes Convent was erected with an attached cemetery. So yes, more bones for the archaeologists to dust off and remove as they reach down, down through the layers of time. 

Happily, more than skeletons were offered up for oggling. I couldn’t help but think that many of my designer friends would be thrilled by the iridescent lustre found on these small glass vessels. Isn’t incredible to think that they have been sleeping thousands of years underneath the ground? Similarly, for the two fragile dangling pendants, one caressed with gold, the other in jet and possibly of African origin. 

Now, all of this is worth noting but archaeology is far from France’s sole line of heritage. Mais, non! As a thank you to Remi’s contribution to the dig, the team invited us to a lunch at their offices with each member bringing something to the table. And as it was a day celebrating discoveries, it was all too appropriate that I tasted something that I had never heard of before. The papeton is a dish that originated in Avignon and was named for being cooked in a mold in the shape of the Pope’s crown. A mix of eggplant purée, eggs and garlic, it is Provence on a plate. But so much was wonderful–and homemade: the goat cheese and red pepper tart, the prosciutto, roquette and balsalmic pasta salad, the insane apple, cinnamon and creme fraiche pie for dessert. Such generosity amidst a table of gossip and laughter.

The last to leave was the photographer, camera in hand, working even then to create images to help others travel back in time…in the future!

We don’t go out to eat that often. Not only is it far less a part of the everyday culture in France than in the States, but when you have as good a cook, and as handsome a one, as Remi in the kitchen, well, it just doesn’t make sense. Often, either of us could make what is on offer at the local joints–if not better! But that is not the case for L’Autruche, the Ostrich, which is tucked away on the tiny rue Dulau in the heart of Arles.

I always love to read their menu–actually, I’ll pass by while out on my walk with Ben just because it usually inspires me one way or the other in my own cooking. Now, I’ll admit that dinner is firmly out of our price range–hence going for lunch!–but well worth it for those with the means as the price is reflected by the quality of the ingredients. Wild monkfish, anyone? Good luck trying to get that in Arles, save for the three star Michelin rated L’Atelier de Jean-Luc Rabanel, the eponymous chef of which has been spotted at L’Autruche on his days off…

Ah, on to the plat principale! The presentation is always a well-conceived jolt to prepare the taste buds and I always respond with typically American enthusiasm, even, to my embarrassment “hooray!” Fabien had arranged for us to have a duo of pan-grilled rouget and salmon accompanied by a medley of grilled zucchini, yellow squash and tomatoes on an onion confit. All served with a tomato saffron sirop and, well, bad blogger that I am, I forgot to verify the ingredients of that shocking green swipe across the plate. Blame it on the wine and the fine company. We were all happy as could be, save our host, who felt that the portions were too small and so ordered up another plate for our table to share, gratuitement.

We all have our stories. Of where we were ten years ago today. And some of us feel the need to tell them again and again like a talisman, no matter how mundane or tragic. As if to say “I am still here” because “I was there then”. 

I was in Paris that day, full of hope and wildly in love. It was the last trip before officially moving over from NYC. As a treat, Remi and I visited the Musée d’Orsay that afternoon and I have a photo of our faces smushed together like soft white moons. We strolled through the Jardin de Tuileries afterwards to the Ritz on the Place Vendôme. There was no doorman out front, so in we went, just to see. And I do remember that members of the staff were running around but trying to do so quietly. I thought that odd.

It wasn’t until we got back to our empty, brand new apartment that I heard a frantic, desperate voicemail from my Mom just saying that my Sister was fine but to please, please call. She needed to hear from me. We turned on the radio, it was all we had. “Les jumelles sont tombée!” Remi shouted out. Of course I didn’t believe him once he translated that the Twin Towers had fallen. Remi was still working at the Gamma Press agency and so we rushed to their offices. We were met with chaos and the hardness of professional news. I think someone took a photo of me crying while watching the television but I am not sure.

As a photojournalist, Remi was given priority and was on one of the first planes out. I followed a few days later. Already the cab driver seemed accustomed to the “No!” I let out as we drove across the Manhattan Bridge, the gaping absence. No Towers to welcome me home. The smoke was still so strong in Midtown and it was undeniably the smell of death that we were all forced to take in with every inhale. There were no answers and no escape. We huddled together in my small bedroom, Remi holding me tight so that my fear would not strangle me like snakes. 

And then, as with a sweep of angel’s wings, the sense of solidarity. Of fellow New Yorker’s looking at each other in the eye, of going out of their way to be, if not outright helpful then at least not to be harmful. Respectful as the Missing Person posters finally came down or were carried away by the wind or faded in the rain. Finally, all at the same level because we had all fallen so far, collectively. It was the closest thing to peace that I could feel during those first few weeks afterwards. And then, pushed forward by a plan that had already been set in motion, I was in Paris, leaving my beloved and wounded city behind. 

In the years that followed as Remi and I travelled for our stories together, I could see the ripple effect of that day and how far it reached across the world and back again. The shock of seeing a pro Osama Bin Laden poster in a desert village in Mali, a woman taking my hand and saying how sorry she was for what had happened once she found out that I was an ex-New Yorker, I don’t remember where that was. Vanuatu? India? It is a black ribbon that tied us all together.

This past summer, my favorite exhibit in the Rencontres International Photography Festival was a tribute to the Mexican filmmaker Gabriel Figueroa. Screens were set up in the alcoves of the desacrilized Frère Prêcheurs church, the very same where flamenco dancers have been twirling and stomping this weekend during the Feria. Each screen featured different themes in Figueroa’s work, all occasionally showing the famous “Figueroa skies” that I remember hearing about when I was an actress. Such depth, such contrast where black is black and white is white. Similar to how so many of us behaved in the days after 9/11.

Two screens were also set up at the opposite ends of the church, both showing a beautifully edited “best of” from his career. It was made up of small moments but I was riveted by the pull of a couple’s embrace, a psyche floating amidst the clouds, the slow lift of eyes brimming with tears. The pull of pure humanity. None of us can resist it. I watched the series over and over again.