Author: Heather Robinson

I have written frequently about my fascination with the layers of history that have been laid down in France. Time periods waggle fingers at each other – the you should have beens – or blush in coy shades of regret or admiration decades, if not centuries, after the fact.

It is one of the many elements of living in this old country that I never tire of nor ever quite grasp either, not entirely, if I am being honest (even when I like to think that I do). Blame it on the American shiny new in me. It has taken ten years of living in Provence – where the length of history’s reach is more blatant in the everyday than in Paris – for me to start to soak up the joy of so much existence present along with its past, both stitched together tightly.

But there are most certainly places that give me direct peace in their seamless cohesion.

That is the case each time that I visit the Chapelle Saint-Sixte on the outskirts of the charming village of Eygaliéres.

As one of the most treasured sites in Provence, its ochre-domed porch fronts hundreds of postcards…

…and is the shelter for many a spring wedding photo…or other testaments to sentimental love…

… but the history of its stones reach back to before recorded history. 

The surrounding scenery seems to know, nodding with cypresses reaching heavenward and vines that are twisted dry under the weight of too many seasons.

A stèle or Stonehenge-like marker stone was in place until the 19th century and it is believed that it marked the site of what was originally a pagan temple dedicated to the cult of water. And yes, a source was present here and it was from this temple that the veterans of the Rome’s 6th legion chose to build an aqueduct to deliver fresh water to the citizens of Arles – nearly 30 miles away – during the height of the Empire’s rule. The nearby village of Eygaliéres would take its name from the Roman word Aqualeria for its wealth of refreshment.

The current chapel is one of the clearest examples of Provençal Romanesque architecture in its simplicity and form. The first mention of it was in 1155 but it was the reference to Easter Tuesday in 1222 that launched the pilgrimage to the chapel from the village (actually a “roumavage” in Provençal which comes from “a voyage to Rome”) in order to plead Saint Sixtus to supply water for the following years crops – one that has continued until this day. The elongated porch was added in the 1629 to serve as a guard-post for inspecting travelers during the plagues of that period and a bell was restored to its tower in 2008.

When we took my Mom and her husband Leonard to visit the Chapelle Saint-Sixte last September, I wandered around with camera in hand, still under its spell after all of these years. Both Leonard and I were intrigued by the many traces that time’s graces had left, some so small and yet each so significant.  When I returned to the porch, I found Remi and my Mom deep in a theological discussion concerning the overlapping present in the main religions, with my Mom providing her perspective as a Buddhist. They talked all the way back to the car, heads nearly meeting in thought.

And that in itself, made me feel quite content. After a thousand years, a site can still be sensed “holy” by many and a touch of faith is continually inspiring in its largesse. Here is to hoping that time will be patient enough and receptive to our efforts so that such layers, thinner than a thread of silk, will be spinning out harmoniously in as many years to come.

The Chapelle Sainte-Sixte

Route d’Orgon

13810 Eygaliéres

Mass is held on Thursdays at 9:30am in summer

Pour mes lecteurs francophones, la chant de roumavage (en français et provençale):

Oh my goodness! This post was absolutely supposed to go up yesterday but, oh you know how holidays go, things are never entirely on schedule, are they? 

For you see, I decided to cook! I don’t always on the third Thursday of November. Yesterday was, of course, just a regular day here in France. But oh, how Thanksgiving lives on in my heart. With time, it has become one of my very favorite holidays as I learn and relearn the importance of gratitude. 

On Wednesday night, I will admit it, I was feeling verrry sorry for myself. It happens every year. Somehow the anticipation of the fête, that longing to be with my family in the States just pulls and tears while I read my fellow blogger’s posts of cooking emergencies and travel woe. Most exceptionally, this year has been the month-long run-up of the preparations (ending with his locking his Mom under “sweat shop” conditions until she finished her annual tablecloth) by my extremely witty friend, Stephen Andrew Jones. I know that today of all days, you may not want to have anything in the least bit to do with Thanksgiving but if you are in need of a laugh by all means go and visit him: here.

For not only does he set a serious table, he is also a kind soul who did not judge my grating “oh woe is me” but understood it and sent me “in the trenches” photos of his final stages before his phenomenal feast, the last one dating to 2am his time. It cheered me immensely. As has my friend Ellie’s determination to make her first Thanksgiving in Provence a great one. Easier said than done in these parts and she wisely (as SAJ phrased it) brought cranberries down from the far more cosmopolitan Paris “in her purse.”

While these two wonderful people inspired me, finally I cooked…for me. This post could actually have been titled Cooking for Yourself, part three (to view the previous two posts see here and here) and I have to say that it was the single best gift that I have given myself in a long time. Alas, turkey is still not in the shops yet so a poulet jaune fermier Label Rouge (aka fantastic free-range chicken that cannot have any scary hormones or additives in it – let alone be a clone – thanks to the excellent European Union health rules – yay!) had to stand in its stead (and honestly, as there was just the two of us it was a wiser option anyway). I already had enough to make the rest of the basics to go with it at hand – butternut squash soup, dressing, garlic mashed sweet potatoes…what? “Please stop talking about food,” you say? Ok, done.

I took my time cooking, spending all afternoon chopping and sipping Chardonnay as Thanksgiving law requires. In doing those same repetitive motions that I knew that my Mom would be going through hours later, I felt nearly as connected to her and the rest of my family in the States as if I had been there all while preparing a nice surprise for my family here (“Wow, what are you doooiing?” Remi asked at one point and yes, the puppers got chicken broth on their dinner. Ben looked astonished). 

And in slow going, I had plenty of opportunities for reflection. You all were frequently in my thoughts and if I am rambling on in a post tryptophan-induced haziness, it is only out of willing to (finally coming to the point) express an extreme gratitude for all of the kindness and support that you have given, which honestly, has helped to sustain me through what has been a fairly challenging year for us. Bring on 2016! I know it is just around the bend now, isn’t it? Until then, un grand merci. The best of me bows down to the best of you. Namaste.

Along with my friends and my wonderful family, they are plenty of other things that I am extremely grateful for.

This has been the Year of the Garden, a huge discovery that opened up a whole new way of working (eh, oui), being and eating for Remi and I. And the good news is that just after we put our main plot to rest, our friend W offered to split half of another parcel with us! It was back breaking work and we were in a rush to get it ready for winter before the first freeze. We barely made it, working into the dark two nights in a row. Above, you can see the “after” of our plot on the right and the sorry “before” of another gardener who has left his sit unused on the left! We are hoping he will have a change of heart and pass it our way come Spring…

I am also extremely grateful for the many fabulous brocantes in Provence and the bliss Remi and I feel while strolling and examining the treasures and stranger items…a-hem. They are an insta-gateway to pure happiness for me.

I am grateful for the smell of old books and for music that is so powerful that it makes me weep with joy…or get up out behind my desk to dance because no-one is looking, that is unless you count…

I am grateful for our boys.

As I wrote recently, Ben makes it a personal mission to make me laugh out loud everyday, most frequently with his “oh, this old thing?” shenanigans involving a stick. You can’t see it but he has an eyebrow cocked here, he does.

And Kipling, our rascal, is still teaching me not only patience but that sometimes it can take years to earn a trust that has been broken…but that it is possible nonetheless. He gives me little signs of encouragement and I listen to them. Nearly three years in to our adopting him, he will occasionally play with me and gnaw on my wrist gently. He is still learning what play is and that it is not only ok but good.

 

I could go on – and often do! – but I will just add that I am so very grateful for the beauty of Provence. 

It has been a rough past few weeks for most of us and I have found enormous comfort in the surrounding landscape during moments when nothing else made any sense to me at all. It reminds me, everyday, that Beauty and Love will continue to rule. And that is enough alone to make giving thanks just part of the daily routine.

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PS. Now, that I am not a fan of Black Friday is an understatement. I always cringe each year when they show the segment on the French news of crazed US shoppers pushing and shoving each other to be the first to get that giant screen tv on sale at midnight after such an important day. And now, the powers that be are even trying to introduce the concept to France. While in Avignon today, I saw signs in shops for “Crazy Friday” – whaaat? No, come on, that is just wrong.

BUT. I have to make an exception for my above-mentioned friend, Ellie, who now also happens to be practically my neighbor. Am I slightly flabbergasted that she managed to score 35 incredible items in her very first weekend while living in Provence for her monthly online sale? I am. Seriously, she found more in TWO DAYS than I have in ten years. Or, that she has been secretly making a collaboration for a special collection of gorgeous blue and white lamps, vases and pots? Um, yep. But not so much that I won’t give you the link to it. 😉

You can find Ellie’s blog here.

And to access the sale directly, click here.

But don’t delay if you are interested as her peeps literally set their clocks to the start of each sale.

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I am looking forward to hopefully steering Lost in Arles back to more solid ground subjects but am really appreciative of the huge outpouring of kindness that you all have shown. For what it is worth, I have told so many people in this little village about you all and I know that they were moved.

Plus, I have a fun series for the holidays coming up that I have been saving, so please stay tuned…

For my American readers, did you have a good Thanksgiving?

And for my friends elsewhere in the world, what is your favorite holiday?

Enquiring minds want to know!

Bisous,

Heather

I couldn’t stop fidgeting. I would pull my hair down out of a tightly wound chignon only to wrap it back up five minutes later. Ditto for the Hermès scarf that I rarely wear, I would tie it around my neck, twist my fingers in the tips, only to shrug it off and drape it open around my shoulders. Something inside me was jumping and I wanted to break out in a run.

And yet I wasn’t actually nervous but rather fuzzy, out of focus and distanced to what was going around me. I was still too caught up in the emotions brought about by endless loops of newsreels to be out walking about in public.

It was Friday night, one week exactly after the terrorist attacks in Paris when 130 people had been brutally killed. I think if I had only listened to my instincts, I would have stayed at home, le cocooning as the French call it. But we had an invitation.

Remi’s friend and colleague, Lionel Roux, was opening his art exhibition “Par Dessus Tout, La Provence,” where he would present his panoramic images of our region shot from on high at the Chapel St. Anne in Arles. Of course, we had to go. And part of me wanted to as well. Not only to support Lionel but to finally start to see other people and to respire beyond the confines of my own shrunken heart. 

There were several events organized for the evening as is often done in Arles so that la belle monde can stroll from one to the next, creating a flowing line linking creativity, a glass or two of cheap wine and fastidious conversation. Many Provençaux were expected to attend the unveiling of the new sash to be presented to the Queen of Arles in the town hall while another vernissage at the recently opened Manuel Rivera-Ortiz Foundation – which focuses on the plight of the poor in under-represented countries – would most likely draw an intellectual crowd with the possibility of quite a bit of overlap between the three.

I did not know what the mood would be.

I laced my arm with that of the belle Madame L who was accompanying us along with her companion Monsieur W. The men walked up ahead of us, lost in discussion, as we crossed the Place de la Republique. The night wore heavy, I felt slightly exposed and leaned in. I was especially aware of who was around me and where, just as I had in Manhattan the days after 9/11. We mounted the steps to Lionel’s exhibition, past the security guard who was checking his cell phone but was present nonetheless. And there we found…

…a happy band. A milling crowd…

…out in the dark.

The glass half-full of something just below burned, barely palpable…

…with the need for connections to be made.

And yet there was no show of pasted on normalcy…

…no frozen smiles…

…and at times the roots of mourning were still obvious. 

I ran into a few people that I hadn’t seen in a while, some of whom wanted to talk about the horror of the week before but most did not after an initial nod of recognition. A few shared stories of having been nearby the attacks as if to cleanse the story – as though with repetition it would lose its strength. One whispered with disgust that there seemed to be something of a twisted competition in these stories, of who lost the most, who survived.

But, above it all, there seemed a tacit agreement to simply focus on the art. 

We were all a bit fuzzy that evening, I suppose, not only me, scratching our way back up to the surface of everyday life…

…together. 

Mixing, talking and even laughing but most certainly…not letting fear win. Even for those who could not claim to be même pas peur. Like myself.

And this even though the pain was still so present. Certainly no one was forgetting anything. Fresh flowers had been lain at the small shrine in front of l’Hôtel de Ville despite the wind having snuffed out the candle’s glow.

At the Foundation, I passed through the brightly lit rooms of the Renaissance period hôtel particulier alone, observing. The age and the solidity of the old stones held up the bee-like swarm of the shoulder-touched crowds. Hiding behind my camera, I no longer felt the need to fuss and flick, now steadied by the current of a collective hum.

For I was incredibly proud to be amidst this group, so wounded and yet so resilient. As an outsider, I was quite moved by what I saw. That evening, these regular citizens were standing by their belief in freedom and joie de vivre, qualities of life here that no one will take away. Wearing their affinity loosely, while rising ensemble like a bird set free, they showed me the beauty of the French spirit and through that, the strength of humanity.

“It felt good to go out tonight, didn’t it?” I asked Remi later as we walked towards home in our tiny village. Yes, it had, he agreed.

I am not usually one for pop anthems but I have been listening to this on repeat the past few days:

My thoughts remain with the families, friends and loved ones of the victims of the Paris attacks. I think that I stayed at the Radisson in Bamako, Mali and send the same to those involved there. And for any of you reading from Brussels, stay strong. The world believes in you and is sending strength. 

Let’s continue to stand united as one mankind.

Thank you for all of your support and for being the amazing people that you are.

With much Love and Gratitude from Provence,

Heather

There were nearly two hundred of us waiting outside the gate. Everyone was talking quietly, giving bisous to those they hadn’t yet seen since Friday night. 

Monsieur le Maire, wearing his tricolor sash, was the first to enter the school courtyard where all of the students were lined up in rows. Some were tittering nervously but all remained still, in place, as members of our tiny village filed in slowly. All extraneous conversation fell away.

I was there with my friends Madame L and her fine companion W. I had written an email the night before asking if I could accompany them. Although I would have gone alone, I have been in a fragile state and thought it best to be surrounded by people who I could rely upon if need be. My friend C, the first “Americaine” of the village, crossed through the crowd. “I want to stand with you guys.” It felt really good to see her. She was clearly moved and I felt it echo through me as we hugged.

Shortly before noon, the mayor read a short speech about the importance of our coming together as a community and a nation, that we are here, standing united in the face of such barbaric acts. His hands were shaking slightly. I looked around and saw faces of all ages, from tiny babies to the advanced elderly, all listening, present. He spoke on, honoring lives lost.

Afterwords Madame F, the head of the school, explained what the faculty had done with the students that morning. She told us of the words that were presented and explained, words like Daesh (the acronym used in France for the so-called Islamic State), Syria, Belgium, terrorism, terrorist…and what it is to live in France, what is a democracy, what does the tenet of that mean. 

The mayor called for a minute of silence. I had gripped C’s hand at some point. I bowed my head and prayed…I tried to find the words…I have had such a hard time finding the words or even speaking at times over the past few days. When I failed I directed my heart towards the victims, their families, their friends and loved ones…and all who were touched directly and indirectly by this massacre. Which means, finally, all of us. 

The minute over, the bell of the town hall began to toll and one of the students ran to ring the school bell. We were thanked for coming and the group was beginning to disperse when someone started to sing “La Marseillaise.” Voices joined in, one after the other, singing quietly but with determination. I did too, while crying, when I could. As Remi wrote this weekend, we are all French right now.

When it was over, glances and nods were exchanged, a recognition. I fumbled for kleenex then my sunglasses and quickly put them on for this was not about me. This was and is about that feeling of solidarity, even amidst an extreme crisis, that I felt in the courtyard. 

I asked Madame F for permission to take a few photos of the drawings that the students had made in order to share them with you. C, who works at the school, had told me that some of the young ones had experienced difficulty in putting their feelings into images. But in words they wrote, “No to violence and yes to love”… “Not afraid”… “Grief”… “No to terrorists”…. and… “We will not pull back in the face of fear. Liberty, Hope, Paris.”

A beautiful young girl approached me just after I had photographed that last phrase. “Did you take one of that one? I did that!” Nine years old, ponytail swinging, eyes shining. I averted my gaze as I didn’t want to confuse her with my clinging tears. “Bravo, tu as bien fait,” I responded. You did good.

I don’t know where the events of November 13th are leading us or how any of it can be resolved any time soon. I fear we are headed into a war, I fear we will be torn apart. I fear, I fear but also, I love. And I am very grateful to have been present at a moment of resilience in the midst of such chaos.

May we find a way towards Peace and may our hearts remain strong.

Sending much Love to you all from France,

With my deepest condolences to all who have lost or been hurt by this tragedy,

Thank you to all who have sent emails and comments of concern,

H.

Founded in the 12th century, it’s rounded portal symbolizes the half-moon arc of man reaching up towards God and coming back down to Earth with God inside him, a reoccurring theme in Romanesque architecture.

The stones have been smoothed by so many supplicant hands. Bare heads of countless newborns have been dipped in the baptismal fonts.

I wonder if Les Baux’s warrior troubadours would kneel to absolve themselves after their far-reaching attacks during Medieval times, their swords scraping the steps as they did. Did they beg for forgiveness? Were they granted it? 

Vincent of Sargossa, a Spanish martyr from the fourth century is the patron saint. Legend says that ravens protected his body from the vultures after he had been burned alive on a gridiron. He is invoked by winemakers, brick-makers and sailors. Certainly, the first of those might call upon him today as Les Baux is surrounded by gently sloping hills dotted with vines. The same need for protection from nature’s whim – or man’s – remains. 

Despite the jewel-like tones of its glass stained windows (donated by Prince Rainier III of Monaco in 1955), a somber mood prevails. Perhaps peace is honored as the church itself seems to be wrapped in a shroud of melancholy, one that would flutter in ages past as the “Lanterne des Morts” was lit under the gargoyles watchful stare when one of the villagers had died.

 Dug partly out of the hillside, the anchored walls of St. Vincent hold in their veracity.

While the recent time change has truly thrown me for a loop – as it always does – I hold dear this part of the year in its slow exhale, with strands of reflection wrapped around my fingers, binding them into something steady even when whispered, like a prayer?

Faith is a curious number.

Thank you for all of your incredibly kind wishes for Ben. Have a wonderful weekend.