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Yes, you read correctly and no, it wasn’t a banquet for a king, just an everyday midweek type of thing. Remi and I actually weren’t even certain that it was a lunch as the invitation was to “stop by for a glass of wine after the market.” Hmm, ok, at noon? Sure enough, when we walked in the door the table was set and a bottle of Champagne was popped before we could pretend to protest. As our friends were taking care of their visiting grand-daughter there was lengthy chatting and munching of ‘tomato caviar’ (aka sun-dried tomato paste) covered toasts while she played with her pasta. And then for the adults, aioli, the quintessential Provençal plate of steamed legumes and mountains of stinging garlic mayonnaise (just in case you thought it was a healthy dish).

The little one gave a round of bisous, or little kisses, before heading off to nap time and I could have joined her save for the melty Brie that was brought out. To at least try. One bite. And then who can say no to a home-made apple tart? Not this girl. Slight pickings at the lemon cake that I had brought and mercifully strong coffees helped to keep the conversation fuelled. I tried to properly express my disappointment at the mid-term elections, the “tea party” power over the press and that Obama is not actually a Muslim. The sun was already rosy by the time we headed out to the car, talking all the while, grateful that we didn’t have an office to report to, at least not today and such wonderful friends to share an afternoon with.

Why the time doesn’t change on the same date the world over I’ll never understand but today leaves me feeling as disoriented and untrustworthy as it always does when we lose an hour. So no Happy Halloween here. No flickering Jack o’Lanterns or martinis downed while sporting an unwise Lady Gaga meat dress. Just rain whimpering through most of the day, mottling out the sun. Nothing better to do than keep the fire stoked and The World of Interiors handy.

This evening was the first with Ben’s post-dinner stroll in the dark and the streets were appropriately empty. Everyone is elsewhere as Toussaint is the French Thanksgiving of family gatherings and I find myself missing mine. Remi and I spoke of my Dad’s passing over lunch. It was the right thing to do. Tomorrow I will head to the cemetery with a friend as she pays her respects at her father’s grave, bringing flowers, clearing away leaves.

For a bit of light amidst the shadows of this very serious holiday, I accepted Frederique’s offer to take in the last day of the retrospective of the photographer Pierre Jahan’s work at the Musée Reattu. Housed within the former Grand Priory of the Knights of Malta, the 17th century fortified structure was once the center of a network of such priories between Toulouse and Geneva. Gargoyles hover over every corner, a poignant contrast to the tender nudes shown within that Jahan took to illustrate a poem of Jean Cocteau’s celebrating love, life. After all, best to appreciate on this All Soul’s Day that we are still here.

One of the great pleasures of exploring the real estate market in Arles is that you never know what you are going to come across. As the historic center is protected under the auspices of being a UNESCO World Heritage site, no new constructions are permitted and modifications on existing buildings are heavily regulated. Nearly every building, even the most heavily renovated, has at least some tell-tale traces of its past. The apartment that we are currently renting has Roman ruins in the cellar and while this is extraordinary, it is not unheard of in a town also known as “The Little Rome of the Gauls.” There are even whispers of treasures discovered but kept hidden for fear of being taken by the government.

I had the pleasure of visiting a treasure hidden in plain sight this morning. I have always liked the building from the outside, its 18th century paned windows still intact, the venetian shutters less so, the hint of a rooftop terrace barely discernible from the street below. When I saw the “for sale” sign, I quickly told Remi, my companion, about it and an appointment was set. On paper, it was perfect with a large business on the ground floor that would make a wonderful gallery and a total of 300 square meters of space (3229 square feet) above. At 280, 000 Euros we knew that we couldn’t afford it on our own, but if we sold a floor? Maybe.

Well, my curiosity had been well-founded. Truly, it is one of the most interesting properties that I have ever seen here (and having been to nearly 150, I consider myself something of an expert for the Arles market) from the arched cellar dating from the Middle Ages to the charming studio overlooking the rooftops of Arles. Nothing but that gorgeous stone from Fontvielle, simple lines and a hint of Bourgeois design, a rarity in this Provençal town. Despite having been closed up for ten years, the air circulates easily through the high-ceilinged rooms that turn around an inner courtyard. But my, oh my does it need work. Alas, too much for us, even with another buyer, but it is an incredible opportunity for someone patient, willing to invest, willing to do the work. An elegant lady sleeping, however it wasn’t meant to be for me to her Prince Charming. We will keep looking for another house to bring back to life and I will watch and wait, hoping that this little jewel gleams once more.

When the rip roar of the Mistral wind has passed, leaving those in its trail as if waking up from a dream, it offers a gift, perhaps a “sorry for the disturbance” type of apology. The French have an expression “faire table rase” which translates as wiping the slate clean but also implies an opportunity to start over, a new beginning. If the pesky Mistral likes to shake things up, making couples fight and dogs bark, it also levels the playing field,  pushing past the clouds to create a sky so open and light so pure that anything seems possible.

Well, the Mistral wind did rear its ugly head yesterday, rather sneakily too, I might add, slowly building to a crescendo that was positively Wagnerian. But, alas, this is France, so we can’t go without bread, no matter the weather. In Soulier, my permanently rosy-cheeked friend behind the counter explained simply “C’est le temps de la Toussaint”–the weather that traditionally arrives with the All-Saints Day holiday. With a shrug she added “it’s just a little early this year. Be careful going home.”

Warning well-heeded. With the garbagemen still on strike, there was even a greater number of UFOs to worry about than usual and at 110 kilometers per hour–we drive that fast!–the Mistral can rip off loose roof tiles and whip them through the air like playing cards. Even once, safely inside, I was hounded by the howl of the wind whiplashing the garden and shaking up the chimney. Maybe all of those souls for Toussaint were visiting a bit early too.

Only one thing to do in such circumstances, eat a meal to knock the life back into you. So here is the Mistral Menu that we served yesterday evening:
For the apero, toasts with tatziki dusted with paprika and red pesto dotted with balsamic reduction.
My soup–this time with butternut squash, sweet potato, apples, ginger and mystery spices.
My honey’s Made In A Rainstorm Duck Confit served with garlic potatoes and chanterelle mushrooms.
A barely touched cheese plate with fig jam.
Our friend Patrick’s compote made with apples from his brothers garden in Alsace.
All of this washed down with a 2008 Crozes-Hermitage and an insane Gaston de Casteljac cognac.

We had to huddle in a pack to walk our friends back to their hotel but there is nothing like an evening spent in fine company to take the mystery out of the Mistral.