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There is a monster in my living room. It is our Christmas tree. 

Remi picked it out this year. 

This makes the seventh Christmas that we have bought our tree from the Mountain Man of the Ardeche. Yes, we have our faults but we are ridiculously loyal. It seems the very least we can do for his efforts of filling up his rusted white van full of sapins de Noêl in the middle of the night and making the five hour drive so as to arrive in time for our Wednesday market. He never disappoints, neither the man nor his trees. His face is as craggy as the mountain that he comes from and is nearly covered with hair, his teeth have been worn down to daggers. But he was so pleased to see us again! He clapped his hands together and smiled. It always feels so good to be remembered, doesn’t it? 

And while vaguely on the subject of cultural differences, I had a conversation this morning while I was out on my morning walk with Ben that was odd on so many levels that it is worth repeating. I was in a great mood, the sky was blazing blue and I had my camera out, ready to take some photos. A man stopped to compliment me on Ben but I quickly realized that he had confused him with a dog that is similar in appearance but actually belongs to the Roma or Gypsy camp outside of town. This dog is very sweet and makes the rounds to the shops for attention and scraps. I said that it is surprising that he is so docile and well-trained. The man puffed up his chest and said, “Not all Gypsies are dirty you know. Where are you from?” When I replied that I was American (curious to see where this was going) he responded, “Well, that is the difference between your society and mine. Here in France we do not make such gross assumptions about people as you Americans do, where black is black and white is white.” Now, I knew that I should have stopped this exchange right away by explaining that I am not in the habit of confusing people with their dogs but I couldn’t help myself. “Excuse me, but how can you say such a thing when France remains an incredibly racist country? We are in a region where nearly 30% of the population votes for the FN (the Front National Party) which wants to sweep all of the immigrants out of the country…” I paused, stupefied and also because I realized that I was raising my voice. “This is not about racism!” he yelled, now also angry. “You see? A good conversation turned ugly,” I said with a shrug as I turned my back and continued down the street. For the record, I don’t have a problem with the Gypsies but their dogs are often aggressive as they are trained to guard the camps. Sheesh. Why is it, after so many years of living in France that it still makes me so very angry when someone makes a gross generalization about the United States? Every single time I hear “you Americans” my skin crawls. My country is so huge and holds such a wide range of religions and cultures, styles and modus operandi. Please don’t put us in a box, that is unless you are willing to wrap it up with a big bow to put it under my Monster Tree. 

Heehee, you weren’t expecting that now were you? Three futons, the empty bottles, a refrigerator by the fireplace and a whole lot of sadness. The white stucco walls had been repainted only as high as someone could reach. I could smell the cat. With planning and elbow grease, we changed the space to this…

AFTER, THE LIVING ROOM

A view looking towards the “kitchen”, which is in truth an alcove in the living room. What on earth to do for a couple that cooks as much as we do? Cry? Well, Remi really used his thinking cap and I’ll do a separate post soon. We did take the stucco off half of the facing wall, put in cabinets and appliances (they are not often supplied for rentals in France).

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE, THE SALON

Do I really need to say anything about my feelings when we visited? Truly, I wanted to give those students a kick in the pants right then and there and save this lovely apartment.

AFTER, THE SALON

So here we are today. As for all of the photos, I just took them on regular ol’ days when I thought that the light was pretty. No special pillows or styling as you can see. If anything there is too much light! More than the little Pentax can handle. 

As with the living room, we scrapped all of the stucco on the outside wall and painted the rest of the walls “Chanvre” by Tollens. We were delighted with the quality of the paint and it was well worth the investment. When you live with a photographer, the light needs to reflect just so…

(Oops, another old photo. Yes, we have put the “Maharajahs” to right.)

We only recently put up the ciel de lit, one of the things that held me up from doing this post. Can you believe that I found it at that Depot-Vente in Eygalieres for 40€? Score! I also decided to give up on having the money to make curtains out of the Nina Campbell fabric that I had bought truly for a song on ebay UK and just swooped it up and around the frame. In the summer, we had our silk coverlet from Angkor on the bed, now thanks to the generous gift of a headboard and a matching bench from our friends, we have gone with something simpler. 

BEFORE, OR ACTUALLY DURING THE LONG FINGER BREAKING WORK

AFTER

Ben and I were cruising through the outdoor market, searching in vain yet again for decent mushrooms and our missing goat cheese lady when I suddenly remembered that it was in fact the first Wednesday of the month. “Ooh, let’s go to the brocante,” I proposed. Ben wagged his tail in agreement and off we went.

A brocante, or flea market has taken place along the boulevard des Lices for as long as any of the vendors can remember. And while it might look a little rikiki, you never know what you might find. Some time ago, a man bought an old book and found several drawings by Vincent Van Gogh tucked in between its pages. I kid you not. 

This being Arles, there are many stands that specialize in materials used for the traditional costume, named aptly enough, L’Arlesienne. While the woman next to me fingered a bit of heavy lace for trimming, I made the mistake of running my hand along a bit of fox stole only to have the seller snatch it away while glaring at me with a raised eyebrow. It is true, Ben and I make a suspicious pair if ever there was one.

Speaking of typically Provençal items, check out these creepy santons–I have never seen anything like them. The two sailors in the back look like that want to capture you in the net, the scary old maid next to them as if she wants to hit you with her wool batting, the gentleman is hunched in preparation to whack you with his walking stick if you make another move. Then again, perhaps they are just protecting the Mamy and Pappy relaxing on their bench so that Mamy can continue grinding away at her mortar and pestle in order to prepare a killer aoili. 

So did I score any goods? Bah oui, mes chéres, if not I wouldn’t have taken you along for this little jaunt. For it was the vague memory of dyed linen sheets that made me change my direction in the first place. I found the seller, slightly hunched in a well-worn fur coat, eyes smudgy in blue eyeliner and checked out her wares only to return with Mr. Benali in tow later in the afternoon. He wisely chose three.

(Slight parenthesis in the middle of the post: after typing the word three, out of nowhere popped into my head, “Mr. Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie pop?” “Let’s find out. A one…a two-hoo…a thrreee…*crunch*…Three.” For the original commercial see here. I guess this is what happens when I have a big espresso after lunch.)

So yes, three. And lovely choices they are. My photos don’t do them justice. There is even one with the initials “HB” which are what my initials would be if a certain person and I got married. *cough, cough* As the seller uses her own pigments, the colors are all slightly in-betweenish, such as the vieux rose that she created by mixing “fruits rouges et chocolat”–it sounds like a dessert! The mocha has a pinkish hue and the thick gray a metallic deepness to it. They are far too pretty for the linen closet and I can’t wait to make up the bed with them.

Something I couldn’t resist…the one luxury seller at the brocante (Hermés scarves for 150€), also was offering this one bag, sewn by a friend out of an old beaver fur coat and topped with velvet handles as well as a tassel and a jet bead ornament. For only 30€! I adore it, which means that I am finally giving the Sonia Rykiel leopard-print pony tote that Remi bought for my birthday a well-deserved rest. And so, while I should be out buying Christmas presents for my friends and family, I am instead focusing on…myself. Bad Holiday Karma! Bad! Will someone please help me dig into the spirit of things? This year, it has remained elusive but I really truly need to get cracking!

Imagine my delight when I was invited to join a group of our closest friends to go to a wine tasting! Hooray! Because not only would I be spending time with people that I adore but in a setting that I had long hoped to experience: The Domaine du Grand Fontanille. 

I had been told that the domaine was one of the most beautiful in Provence, quite a claim in this neck of the woods and it most certainly did not disappoint. Formal gardens dotted with fountains and trellis-covered walkways descended beneath the chateau. 

If it was slightly intimidating to climb the long stone staircase, all hesitations evaporated when the front door was flung open and we were welcomed into the entry hall. Remi was quick to point out, after a deep inhale, that the air was redolent with the perfume of wine and a crackling fire. “All the things that are good in life!” I added with a laugh. 

I also caught my first whiff of sapin de Noël! Wreathes created by Valerie Bertrand, an artisan fleuriste, were for sale as part of the open house and certainly helped to set the mood.