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The sacred and the profane collide up against each other during the Easter bullfights, le Feria de Pâque. A million visitors pour in to Arles from all over the world for this weekend, which opens the season of la tauromachie. Have I been to a corrida, where the bull is slaughtered? Yes, I have. Remi and I try to not judge the traditions that we experience in our travels elsewhere in the world and so felt it was important to go at least once to witness this very controversial art (as it is defined in Wikipedia). I won’t go back. Although I had to admire the courage and at best, the élan of the torero, or matador, there is nothing to be said for the bull–despite the audiences cheers to the contrary–nor of its heart-rending moans in its final moments. After two hours of watching man face his death, a palpable excitement bursts from the spectators in the Arena with the brashness of the trumpets that sound endlessly. Les aficionados, that have included the likes of Picasso and Hemingway, are ready to assuage their thirst for life. And so they drink it down, at the bodegas or open bars throughout the town. More come to party than for the bullfights and it can be as equally messy as the bull’s blood. Think of Spring Break but amidst adults who are definitely old enough to know better. 

There is one exception and that is the bodega of Les Andalouses, located in the desacralized Frère Prêcheurs church, the walls of which line our garden. Thursday evening draws those that follow the traditions involved with la tauromachie with a nearly religious fervor. Perhaps it isn’t so strange after all that the event is held in a former church? As Remi was firing up the BBQ, we could hear the stomp of flamenco dancers resound. “Go” he encouraged and so I did for just a moment as I love to watch the proud swirl. It was an elegant crowd, one that was waiting patiently for the cue to pair off with their partners. Back in the garden, as the music echoed around us, the conversation turned to how surprising it is that this festival, which at its height becomes absolutely pagan, is held at Easter in a country that is still profoundly Catholic. So much so that last week a band of men, their faces covered in ski caps, burst in to the Collection Lambert in Avignon to smash Andreas Serrano’s Piss Christ, which is being featured in a current exhibition. Another example of controversial art. The attack was a very organized affair, one that came the day after over two hundred protestors gathered to demand the photographs removal. This weekend is a revealing glimpse at the dichotomy of this country, one as surprising as the hole in the church wall that let us watch the dancers turn late into the night. 

Feeling a gratitude as wide as the sky today. My sister’s surgery was a great success and she is recovering well. Already making jokes with the nurses. Thank you so very much to those of you who sent good wishes. I was especially touched by those that came from the folks that don’t know her or had just found this blog as so many of you did yesterday. Which leads me to…

A huge thank you to Brooke Giannetti for featuring some of my photos on her fantastic blog, Velvet & Linen. When Brooke asked if she could publish them, I imagined one, maybe two–but no! I was also delighted by her kind words. That Brooke remains such a generous and lovely person despite her overwhelming success is inspiring to say the least. For those of you who don’t know her blog, allez-hop! : Velvet & Linen.

Spring Fever is bubbling up for the Feria de Pâques, the Easter Bullfights and parties that accompany them. More on that soon for I am not quite ready to dip my hands into that yet. Today, you’ll find me just floating happily up in the big blue, saying thank you, merci. 

I am learning to let chance hold sway when it comes to encounters in Provence. Just say yes, just go, don’t look but see. Quite a drastic shift from the suspicion imbedded in my previous New York bustle and how I have changed because of it, outer armour melting under a tricky sun that draws my eyes up and out.

Remi and I were both squinting under the noonday glare as we walked up to the tiny house for sale a stone’s throw from the Roman Arena. It was one I had walked past many times with our Golden, Ben but had never noticed, as if it had pulled back into itself, an introvert. That was definitely not the case of the balding, elderly man who stepped out of the shadows of the open front door to greet us. He was as far from the showy Mediterranean macho mold that I could imagine and yet exuded a quiet confidence as he spoke–looking me directly in the eye, a rarity here–that won us over immediately. He spread his hands wide as he told us up front that the house had been empty for some time, that he had estimated an additional 50K in renovations when he had initially thought of splitting it up into studios. A plan that he had decided against. 

He continued chatting amiably with us as we wondered through the rooms, also being wise enough to let us discern the good and the bad for ourselves. Lovely touches remained, such as the intricate cement tiles that have become so fashionable again and the gracious curves of the iron railing lining the stairs that twist slowly, like a snail coming out of its shell. I love trying to imagine who had decided on covering the main bedroom in a 1960’s wallpaper covered with images of jazz men, smoke and the promising words “New Orleans”. Such a contrast to the classic terra cotta tiles that were left behind.

As I made my way back down the stairs, the image of this man clicked into place. I could see his large hands moving slowly towards his hives, his gentleness a necessary trait of his profession. To earn the trust of the bees. I stepped outside to take a last photo of the facade, to get a better idea of the neighbors and view. I could hear the men’s voices lower as they reached the doorway. The beekeeper explained to Remi why he was selling the house, why he wasn’t going to turn them into studios to rent. That plan had originally been discussed as a means of income for his son. But he had committed suicide at 40. “C’est unparable,” he said as he lowered his eyes.

We took our leave and walked home in silence, trying to grasp how something so terrible could have happened to such a kind man. But it was, as he had said, “unanswerable” on many levels. We knew by the time that we reached our front door that the house was too small for us but I think that we both secretly wished that it wasn’t so that we could have made some positive gesture in his direction by buying it. As if saving the house and bringing it back to life would have helped. But the right person will come along. When they do, the beekeeper will move to Montpellier to be closer to his other son. He will pack up his hives and go.

Travelling with a photographer is wonderful as I am often shown things that would have gone by unnoticed and are certainly not in any guide. The other afternoon we were buzzing down a back road when Remi came to a screeching halt and swiftly shifted the Range Rover into reverse, pulling up by an old farm building that was draped in blooming wisteria as a queen is in diamonds and ermine. Bees were swishing about and there were so many little details to dive into. The fig tree pushing out its fruit, powdery irises cooling in the shade, the ladylike Montmirail Mountains holding up the horizon. No sound but the bees and the rustle of oak leaves in the breeze. Moments like this seem too perfect in a way that is almost harder to take in as they are so unexpected. Perhaps that is what I was trying to get to the other day in my post on Vaison La Romaine–I held it against that famous village that it seemed so desperate to be liked when all the elements were already in place. It shouldn’t have to work so hard. A little forgetting can be a good thing.

One last thing worth mentioning about the cathedral. Do you know how I am endlessly running on and on and on about the layers of time in Provence, how succeeding civilizations built on top of each other? Now I have proof! Voila! For it was built on Roman ruins, strong columns on which to install a weighty Christian faith. Isn’t that something? In Arles, I have always been told that Roman stones were used to build houses but I have never come across such a stunningly clear cut example as this one.

And Ben? Yes, he was happy here too. He is nearly everywhere he goes and is all too willing to share his goodness with all he meets. The joy he brings me each day is beyond words. One special dog. This is actually one of my favorite photos that I have ever taken of him–nestled at my feet, half-asleep with his nose in the wildflowers. Typical of a born and raised Provençal, he truly knows how to get the best out of life.