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Picturesque, Part One

My brain is tired. I would say that it hurts, actually, save for the healing powers of a Friday evening pastis, that magical liquorice flavored liquor. I love to tease my Mom that if she ever tasted it, she would want it hanging around her neck in a sippy cup to ease the heat of Summer. And my Mom is not a drinker. It’s that good.
Now, so why oh why am I holding my chin in my hand? I might have mentioned that we are hosting this week. Last night we were nine for dinner and yes, a different set of five for lunch. The allure of Provence in Spring. Most certainly for the Parisians who have huddled under a black streaked skies for far too long. But oh the talking. The rapid fire conversation, in an up North rhythm that is twice as fast in the laid back South has left my poor head reeling from translating, trying to remember who I was speaking to in the formal vous, who had passed to the familiar tu. My goodness, I am an American–we are all just plain ‘ol “you”. Not to mention the oddities of figuring out how to cooly serve a glass of wine to the fifteen year old that had asked for it with her parents agreement, the herding of visiting dogs amidst our gentle Ben. I love the energy, that jolt of newness though, who wouldn’t? 
So I hope that you will pardon me if I just put these photos out there without much explanation. Kind of like in a Rick Steeve’s guide (will someone please explain to me how on earth this man has become so popular? I find his suggestions for Provence truly mind-boggling). They were all taken in the oh-so-photogenic village of Vaison-La-Romaine. Foodies will have heard of it from Patricia Wells. The countryside is marvellous, the lower, albeit Roman encrusted ruins, less so, but the medieval town squatting on the hill is just…picturesque. And though it is lovely to the extreme, I am not entirely sure that is a good thing. Even I, traveller that I am, had my eye glued to the monitor of my tiny Pentax, as did every single person that I saw. You can’t help it. The town is begging, pleading to be photographed. But does it have something else, something deeper? I found myself thinking fondly to the far less organized ruins of Oppede Le Vieux that I wrote about for Valentine’s Day. No one had their eyes on the camera there, they were far too worried about falling off the path and down into the valley. I’ve written a few times about the trap of the dream in Provence and–just my two cents–it is often what separates but what makes the difference between the picturesque and the beautiful.

A taste of Summer

Arles isn’t exactly known for its luxurious mid-seasons. Summer dominates the calendar, starting astonishingly early and ending abruptly in October with the arrival of the Mistral winds. And so, we wore our Spring jackets only for a few days last week before changing into the standard uniform of white shirts and espadrilles. There is also an energy building up with all of the sudden display of skin. This happens every year in the weeks leading to the Feria de Pacques, the Easter bullfights (yes, I realize how odd those two words are together). In a cycle as old as time, there is a general desire to expand, to explode with festivities after a winter hibernation. 
We have two sets of friends that are here on vacation this week, both of whom are considering exchanging the grey shades of Paris for a life in blue. So of course we are doing our very best to convince them and Mother Nature is co-operating swimmingly. Saturday we had our first evening garden party for seven adults and two kids. And, as always, just ridiculous amounts of food. Remi is truly French to the bone in that he wants to cook what he wants to cook, regardless of the whether it is too much or not. As our friends were tired after the eight hour drive down, we decided to keep it informal, along the lines of our “after the market” lunches that got us through the winter. 
I actually made a list of everything that was “ready to go” as things tend to be forgotten about in our tiny refrigerator during the heat of the moment. Two Provençal tarts (one of which never made it to the table), oysters, bulots, marinated fresh sardines, baby calamari, baby octopus that had been sautéed in armangnac and balsamic vinegar, two kinds of olives, mini-toasts with tapenade, sun-dried tomato paste or lupin paste, two kinds of pate (rabbit and bull), blood sausage, fresh saucisson (as opposed to dry), a crudités plate, cold asparagus in a divine home-made sauce and a cheese plate…and do you wonder why we are broke? Ah, yes, broke but happy!
I wanted the house to be at its best and so picked up flowers at the Saturday market. The most giant snapdragons for 5€ (they were larger but I was worried about the vase tipping over) and a ravishing bouquet of pale pink roses that actually smell for 8€ that was large enough to split into two. Having a bad day? Please go buy yourself some flowers. I promise you, it will fill up your heart instantly. After the market, my beautiful friend Frederique invited Remi and I up for the first glasses of rosé of the season. Her terrace opens up across the rooftops of Arles and we had to laugh at the cliché of clinking, digging into a bowl of chips while the Gypsy Kings wailed in the background. If that isn’t Summer in Arles, then I don’t know what is!
Well, there is one other idea that fits the bill to a T. Whiling away an afternoon at a shady café watching the world go by, eaves-dropping on the conversations at the surrounding tables. For that, there is no better place than the square in Maussane. As some of our friends are staying there, we were able to do just that yesterday, at the end of the day, not too hot. Perfect. I actually would highly recommend their hotel, the L’Oustaloun, right on the square. The rooms are charming, at a fantastic price for the area, the restaurant menu verrrry tempting, great views as well.
I wouldn’t be surprised if we had one last sneak attack of cold whip through. In French there is the saying “en avril ne to découvre pas d’un fil”–in April, don’t remove even a stitch of clothing–because, you never know. But for now, ah, for now it is the moment to soak up the sun.

Hallelujah!

It’s a miracle! There is finally a sushi restaurant in Arles! Oh, I have been waiting a mighty long time for this. As an ex-New Yorker, one used to the ease of indulging in Japanese food at a dial’s reach, it has been a definite sacrifice not to be able to get my fix save during trips to Paris (the fact that I purposefully stay in the 2nd arrondissement, the neighbourhood with the most sushi, should say something about how much this means to me). But no longer! And, even better, the restaurant that opened, Sakura, has a few tables out front that look directly on to the Arena. What a view! And one that has previously been reserved to tourist traps serving what looks like frozen dinners. My friend Claire’s starter, a futomaki, even had a fushiony twist to it, combining foie gras, shrimp and mango. A plate of salmon carpaccio, followed by the above platter, then a molten chocolate cake and served with a glass of wine (albeit a crappy Côte du Rhône but nonetheless) all for 19€? Vendu! Sold! The fish was fresh (as it better be this close to the ports of the Mediterranean) and well cut, the service friendly. After two hours of sitting in the sun, gossiping with a wonderful friend and delighting in a new restaurant discovery, I am one happy camper.

For sale in St. Remy

On the other side of the Alpilles, I visited another home as a possibility for my friends. This house is a few minutes walk from the center of St. Remy de Provence and yet has a very peaceful feel to it. The pool with a glass and iron pavilion off to the side was zen enough to have been inspired by Bali.

It is rare to see a home that has guarded such continuity in its renovation, down to small touches such as leather covered light switches. The main floor consists of an open plan piece de vie with sitting, dining and kitchen areas all flowing smoothly into one another. There is also a master bedroom and bath as well as an office. Up the stairs is a sleeping loft with bath perfect for a moody teen.

Things get more interesting on the lower floor with its home cinema, hammam and wine cellar.

There are also two independent apartments in the home, one of which has a private entrance. Both have private outdoor areas as well as full kitchens and baths. The current owners have used them as vacation rentals, something that it is quite lucrative in Provence, as you can imagine. 

The charming Eric Didner of the Agence des Alpilles showed us this property. He can be reached at the agency on: (33) 04 90 54 54 55 or feel free to contact me if you have any questions. Here is a link with (better) photos and more info:
Agence des Alpilles

Lost in the woods

I had mentioned in the post about St. Saturnin that we had seen several wonderful things that day. At the far end of the Vaucluse, with the beginning of the Alps shining white in the distance, we came across the Prieuré de Carluc, tucked into a verdant valley cut in two by a rushing brook. One thousand years ago it was under the control of the Abbaye de Mountmajour here in Arles, this despite its being a nearly two hour drive away in the Vaucluse. The Prieuré is also yet another site that was founded around a sacred spring! There is something so mystical about water bubbling up from the center of the earth in an unending stream. Enough to make a believer out of anyone. I have done a bit of digging and it seems that there is not much more that is known about the Prieuré, save that it was a vital stopping point on the road to Rome many moons ago. I am always so amazed at how much history gets lost.
A funeral gallery extends off the side of the chapel with tombs carved in the cliff. And yet there isn’t a sense of gloom here, quite the opposite. A symphony of birdsong and fluttering wings filled the air until it was overtaken by the gentle clanging of bells. Soon, a shepherdess and two very astute border collies drove a flock of sheep over the stream and into the surrounding forest. Ben, driven gaga by their scent, rolled in the grass. Of course he had a bath the day before.
Emerald moss is slowly swallowing up the stones. The Prieuré is a forgotten one, not on the touristic circuit and too isolated for wanderers to stumble upon. That somehow only adds to its beauty, as if it has already had its time in the sun and is now content to sleep.

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