The Duché d’Uzès – exteriors


One of the aspects of this blog that I take quite seriously is not only to point you in the direction of “must sees” in Provence both known and less-so but also to give you a heads up about places that left me disappointed. While that is perhaps a stronger word than necessary concerning my visit to the Chateau d’Uzès, well, it isn’t far-fetched either…even if, admittedly, I had high expectations beforehand.
I adore Uzès and have been – and written about the town – many times and yet had never toured its most well-known attraction after the Place aux Herbes. My main hesitation had always been over the price of the ticket – a whopping 18 Euros per person. My Mom was kind enough to invite me to discover the duché or ducal chateau along with her charming husband Leonard during their visit in September. It is home to the House of Crussol, France’s oldest ducal peerage. 
After passing through a Louis XIII style portico, we arrived in the main courtyard. Happily, there is a cordoned off area at the entry that is free and open to the public. From here, one can take in the various elements composing the domaine as it was constructed over time starting with three ancient towers to a Gothic chapel and a splendid Renaissance period facade created in 1550 – unusual in that it is lined with Ionic, Doric and Corinthian columns, rarely seen all together – which joins them. There are some fine Romanesque touches as well, including sitting bull carvings on a frieze and the eye-catching family crest that was set into the chapel’s roof tiles à la Bourguignonne in the 19th century. The duché was meant to be impressive from a great distance and it is.
Several clusters of couples, many fanning themselves with brochures, were dotted across the courtyard as we approached the ticket booth. A group was just about to set off for the 45 minute long presentation. If we wished to join them, we would have to hurry as no, the castle does not take credit cards. We were directed to an ATM close by and joined up with the others just as they were leaving the extensive wine cellar, leaving me feeling like a scuttled tourist, something that I try to avoid at all costs.
 After touring the castle, we were asked if we wished to ascend to the top of the donjon, which had been built over Roman ruins in the 11th century. Known as the Tour Bermonde, it is the tallest of the towers at the duché. There is a sign at its base saying that it is 135 steps high and that children are not allowed to mount unattended by a parent. We looked at each other. “Is 135 steps too much?” we wondered. It didn’t seem like it. Up we started. Well, perhaps that number isn’t enormous in itself but when the steps are on a vertical corkscrew, it is another matter entirely. All three of us had to stop and catch our breath en route, hoping that we wouldn’t block other visitors on their way down as there is no room to pass. This is definitely not un endroit that I would suggest to anyone who has either claustrophobia or vertigo (as I would realize in the descent, which I had to do turned sideways). However, when we finally reached the summit, our legs were wobbly from the effort but the views were truly spectacular. The clouds that had been hovering all afternoon magically disappeared and I felt like a bird hovering over the roofs of the town and the rolling countryside beyond. It was worth the price of admission alone (and one can visit it without the tour for 13 Euros)…alas, just not such an expensive one.
I will tell you about the chateau’s history and its interiors in my next post…







The Duché d’Uzès
Place du Duché
30700 – Uzès
Exteriors versus interiors, facades versus…loyalty? I have been bandying these words about since having read an op-ed piece in Le Monde this morning that asked how the people in France could have been so unified after the terrorist attacks on November 13th only for so many to vote for the extreme-right and extremely divisive Front National party in this weekends regional elections only a few weeks later. It is a question that has left me feeling ill and angry. And then afterwards to read in the NY Times of Donald Trump’s intentions to block any Muslim from being permitted access to – let’s remember the full name now – the UNITED States of America? I am horrified and left feeling shaky ground beneath my feet in both of “my” countries. So instead, today I made a determined choice to focus on a beautiful past (these old stones, this living history) while at the same time being watchful and vigilant as our future unfolds…to be continued…

The Factory Republique Café – Arles

Now, you all know how much I love Arles. Remi and I both still consider it “our town” even though we now live in a tiny village in the countryside. But…I have said it before and I will sans doute say it again…Arles is a very tricky destination as far as eating is concerned.

Now if you have money to spare? Fabulous. There are several really strong possibilities, even if the owners of these restaurants seem to have made a tacit agreement to keep raising their prices so that lunch can easily top 50 Euros per person…

So, let’s say that is not what interests you. Visitors ask me all the time, “Where can I go to just get…you know, a salad?” Does that mean that you have to fall victim to the frozen food hawkers on the Place du Forum? And what if you really don’t want to be treated like a tourist at all but rather welcomed as a friend?

Meet Gilles. 
He is the owner of the Factory Republique and has quickly become one of my favorite new people in Arles. 
Before giving one of my guided walks this past summer, I had spied a just-opened café right on the rue de la République, one of Arles’ main shopping streets (and right across from the insanely chic boutique Actuel B, which sells the likes of Lanvin and Comme des Garçons, a-hem). My food radar went off (thank you, Mom for that gift) and I popped in to get a card but had to hurry on my way.
Well, two weeks ago I had a bit of extra time in Arles before meeting Remi. “Fifteen minutes,” he had promised. It was a chilly, rainy day and all I wanted was a spot of tea but it was almost 12:30 and I have been flat out turned away for wanting just a drink during “meal time” in the past (I actually saw a waiter kick out a table of people lingering over their coffees to make way for eating customers at a well-known place on the boulevard des Lices – this despite the fact that of the lingerers, one was in a wheelchair and the other severely handicapped but I digress). 
I walked towards the cute café that I had seen in the summer. Oh dear, it was nearly already full but still  I pressed inside, grateful for the warmth. “I am so sorry, I know it is lunchtime but do you think it would be possible if I…” and by the time I had finished my question, I had already been helped out of my jacket and was seated with an “of course, of course” plus…a smile. A real one. I ordered my Earl Grey and a big carafe of water appeared along with it. Quelle surprise, Remi was far later than fifteen minutes and as I shifted impatiently on my tabouret, Gilles wordlessly slipped that day’s edition of the La Provence newspaper on my table. We started to chat.
It turns out that he had already developed quite a following at his previous restaurant in Fontvieille – the Cuisine du Planet whose reputation was always stellar – but decided to open up shop in Arles to be closer to his son’s schooling (because that is how they roll in France, folks). Hence the café, which he had utterly transformed from a soulless discount shoe store into a tiny but fun space, filled with great music to boot. When I left that day, Gilles gave me “les bis” or kisses on my cheek – after just my first visit! As we walked away, I saw lots of passerby pausing to wave a coucou at the cafés friendly owner and I knew that I would be back.
However, the pleasant part is that I had no idea that it would be so soon. While in-between running errands in Nîmes and Arles the other day, Remi completely stunned me when he suggested, “Why don’t we go see Gilles?” Now, this is highly unusual. I understand it – Remi is a far better cook than where we eat out unless it is Michelin-star fodder, so why go? Well, to spend time in a nice place where you feel instantly that you belong…and oh, to eat simply but really well in the process.
And I could see that it wasn’t just me who was treated warmly whether they were stopping by for an espresso (and see that machine in the background? The FR is one of the very few places where you can get a serious coffee in Arles) or to eat the daily special of, say, entrecôte et frîtes (I opted for the roasted salmon with mustard vinaigrette instead – it was perfectly seasoned and tender, the fries delish) for only 15 Euros. Everyone was. Every. Single. One.
Remi enjoyed his maxi salade and the next time that I go I will try the smoked salmon sandwich that the woman had at the table behind us, which, while only costing 5 Euros was copious and looked tempting. Our muffin au chocolat avec crème anglaise was quite good too. Husky blues played in the background while we ate and at one point Remi pointed out that I was talking too loudly. Yep, that can happen when I am content. I think that French word for that feeling is bonhomie. 🙂
But honestly, just go to meet Gilles. He is fluent in English and German and will not treat you badly if you don’t speak French. Something else that I noticed on both occasions? There were tables of women who felt completely comfortable eating there on their own – really, far more of a rarity than you would think in France. Gilles told me that he is going to scale back the menu a bit for the winter months as he would rather have fewer items that are local and in-season, just as he also knows that if he had more options available then he would have to be back in the kitchen cooking as well when what he really wants is to be out front. That says a lot. And if you do go and spy a red-head hunched over her book in a corner or people-watching out on the terrace, then by all means say hello as it may well be me! Hopefully you will enjoy as much as I do the spirit of this new old-school café.*
Café Factory Republique
35 rue de la Republique
13200 – Arles
Tel.: 04 90 54 52 53 (dialing locally)
Open: 8am to 7pm, until 8:30pm on Saturday
Free Wi-Fi
A good idea? Ditch your hotel’s over-priced breakfast and come here instead.
Don’t believe me? Ok, now truly DON’T trust TripAdvisor for eating out in Arles. Except, sauf, in this case as this sweet little café has risen to the number one spot in a matter of just a few months for one reason primarily…and now you know his name!
Bon Appétit…
* As always, just to clarify that in no way is this a sponsored post, just me spreading the word about a much-needed new address in Arles…

…et Bon Weekend!

Chapelle Saint-Sixte – Eygaliéres

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):
O grand Sant Sist …………….. Ô grand Saint Sixte
Proutèjo noste bèu païs, …… Protège notre beau pays 
E di malandro ………………… Et des maladies 
Esvarto lou terrible flèu ! …… Ecarte le terrible fléau ! 
Dins si pelandro trais ……….. Dans sa misère 
Au paure un rai de soulèu. Apporte au pauvre un rayon de soleil.

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PS. My beautiful Sister, Robin, who many of you will know of from her wonderful comments here, is celebrating an important birthday today (well, they all are but you know what I mean!). 
Happy Birthday Robin!
I love you so much Sister,
Sistee


Still giving thanks…

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.

****

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

Out in the dark

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

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