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I am having a hard time taking in this morning’s news that Osama bin Laden is dead. It doesn’t seem quite real to me, just as the initial events on September 11th didn’t as I was unable to comprehend that something so horrible was possible in our world. I was not in New York City that day but in Paris. There is a photo of Remi and I at the Musée d’Orsay, blissfully in love and completely unaware of what was happening. There was no sign of anything amiss amidst the Monets. I do remember a scurry of activity, an urgency in the air in the lobby of the Ritz and how odd it seemed that we could just stroll in, the front door unattended. But it wasn’t until we returned to our unfurnished new apartment that I heard my Mom’s voice gasping into the answering machine. We had trouble understanding what she was talking about, just able to make out that my Sister was safe but to please call, she needed to hear my voice. Remi turned on the radio as I went upstairs to phone. And again, I couldn’t understand when he yelled out that the “Jumelles” as the Twin Towers are called here, were down. We didn’t have a television yet and so rushed to the offices of Gamma, the news agency that Remi was working for at the time. I think that someone might have taken a photo of me, staring at the screens and crying, but I am not sure. 

As a reporter, Remi was given access to the first flight back to New York. I followed a few days later. Again disbelief as I crossed the Manhattan Bridge, searching for the architectural Welcome Home that had always greeted me. The same over the smell of the smoke, so pungent even up on 51st Street and that feeling deep in my gut that “this is what death smells like”. Wondering why it didn’t fade. Taking flowers to my local fire station, one of the hardest hit in terms of loss. Trying not to read the words of the Missing signs that we all knew were put up in vain. Emotional shutdown.

The boutique hotel in Soho that I had been working at between acting gigs laid me off (our office looked directly on to the WTC and those working that morning saw everything, some fainted cold). My agent immediately moved to California as did one of my best friends. So I hurried up the pace and arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport on October 27th, 2001. Ready to look forward to a new life. 

I knew that I was lucky to have not lost anyone nor to have even known anyone that lost anyone. But today’s news makes me remember all over again how much we all lost that day. How another world spun off within our world and we have been on that track ever since. And we are still there. Osama bin Laden’s death does not fill me with any sense of joy or that justice has been done. As a former New Yorker, I am still deeply attached to my city and know that there is no real justice for the families that have lost their loved ones nor for the damage to our collective psyche. Not really. I do feel relieved. Even though I know that this is not the end of terrorism in the world. And I feel grateful for the positive messages in President Obama’s speech. May they bring a light to the path ahead. 

After waiting for nearly an hour, the crowd grew restless as they pressed towards the front of the Town Hall. The riders raised their lances (used to prod their keep) and the spectators clapped and stomped with impatience. Finally, the mayor sailed onto the balcony with a wide grin and announced that Astrid Giraud, had been elected as the 21st Reine d’Arles. The crowd burst into cheers and then a softly sung rendition of the Coupo Santo, the Provençal anthem. I could still hear them singing as I headed through the shady back streets toward our apartment. I find this holiday so beautiful and a wonderful antidote to the brutality of the Easter bullfights. It is Provence at its most elegant and most proud. When Remi and I first moved to Arles, we were travelling the world to cover such people, who held their traditions tightly to their chests in the midst of a cookie-cutter world where we are pushed more and more to resemble each other. How surprised we were to find the same importance so close to home. It still delights me. My best to the new Queen!

Saved. I have to say that was exactly what Remi and I felt when we received the invitation from our friends to come and stay with them in the country for Easter. We had felt as if we were being cooked under the pressure of the Feria and I was worried that one of us would snap. A town of Arles’ size has a hard time containing the energy of a million pastis fuelled visitors and by Saturday afternoon, I could tell that trouble was brewing in the streets. We both sighed in sync then started grinning as we pulled beyond the police barriers and left the chaos behind. 

The Alpilles isn’t the most famous corner of Provence, but for me, it is its heart. The olive groves and vineyards are actively farmed, the homes lived in instead of being a showcase for two weeks out of the year. There is a charm, a douceur that I have never felt anywhere else. And that certainly pertains to hospitality as well. As soon as we arrived, we were immediately shown to a cocoon of a guest room. Everything possible had been thought of to make us feel at ease. We have spent many long afternoons at this wonderful home but it was the first time that I slept there and the experience left me feeling slightly dizzy. Such a drastic shift towards quiet and peace. To be served foie gras and champagne and a gateau de poisson (which sadly translates to an unassuming “fish cake”) in a lobster sauce that I will dream of for months. Conversation a plenty but also knowing when to be left  to have time to breathe.

There is nothing more enjoyable than going on walks in the open–more of that to come. Beyond their wonderful property, we were also shown the Chateau de Manville, a 16th century stronghold from the time of King François the First. The patina from such a date can’t be invented and although they are more recent, I could imagine that these moss covered roof tiles would tickle the fancy of some of the interior designers that visit this blog. As for the stone wall, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had come from a previous outbuilding of the chateau? On the other side of the iron gate, a small creek rustled and irises swayed in a slight breeze. 

The light seemed to trill, fingers pulling harp strings, as we headed back to their house. In good company and with the knowledge that we would be well taken care of. Remi and I don’t belong to such a luxurious realm but are fortunate to have friends that are generous in sharing it with us. Such a break, a relief and I am very grateful to have had such a wonderful experience. Sometimes the best travelling isn’t what we planned for, just something that provokes a shift inside, no matter how subtle.