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Treason, Part two

We already know the subject. Me, forever nomad, always wondering what is around the corner. Remi is the king pin of wanderlust, so what a team we make. Ben will follow where ever his kibble is. Yes, it can be good to shake out the cobwebs and the sleepies to see the possibilities, especially in the Spring, when too much seems possible. 

And so we have been thinking of leaving Arles. A year in Rome! In Tangier! Or forty-five minutes away in the heart of the Alpilles. Eygalières is one of the bijoux villages, those that make you gasp, Tiffany’s windows like, the first time you set eyes upon it. If St. Rémy brings on the romance, this one inspires as in the “Really?” variety.  

Lines of tilting stone houses, some with trees climbing out of their roofs, the majority shuttered up tight waiting for their summer occupants. Almond trees snowed their blossoms against one of those happiest of blue skies. All leading up, up to a garden strewn with ruins.

The impossible green of new grass crawling out of the depth of winter to shake these old stones to life. Imagine walking out your front door to pass the ancient church on the hill and then on out to stroll the hillsides? It was sounding good to me. Very good.

And yet Eygalières is even more prestigious than St. Rémy in that its tinyness breeds exclusivity, enough so that even France’s biggest stars are welcome to stroll in from their farmhouse to have a café unheeded. It was the couple that run my favorite antiques shop in the area that encouraged me that it was indeed possible to find rentals in this upper-echelon. And sure enough, within minutes of tapping away on my favorite search engine, I had found an ad for an apartment in a stone village house at the crossways of Eygalières and to boot at a surprisingly affordable 750 Euros per month.
I was excited as the décor seemed in accordance with our own. And yet, within mere seconds of having been shown through the front door, the pounding started. The walls shook. “Ah, yes, there is just one thing,” the estate agent said nonchalantly. “There is a construction site next door. They should be working on it for the next year and a half or so. They start at about 7am but are finished by 4.” When I reminded her that Remi and I both work from home and would be privy to a non-stop symphony of noise, her lips tightened into a thin, straight line. No arguing to be had there. And so, no Eygalières for us. 
Is it because of having been an actress that I love to imagine slipping into other lives? Of course. After so much training, the mind just tends to work that way automatically. True, I love to dream. It can be addictive. But it can be dangerous. Sometimes it is best to stop looking elsewhere and just enjoy the little moment where you are. For the moment, we are in Arles and it isn’t quite time to leave. Not just yet. 

Treason, Part one

Yes, I have to admit it. I have considered committing treason. Against my town. I know, I know but at times, Arles can be a bit too rough around the edges, the folks a little too cold. So it can be tempting to look around–especially as we are thinking of leaving our lovely rental. 
My friend Sonny wisely made the case that Arles–home to bullfights galore, bordering the austere Camargue with its roaming cowboys, filled with black-eyed beauties–is more Mediterranean and specifically more Spanish than other towns in the region. On the other side of the Alpilles, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence is softer, welcoming in the true Provençal style. And certainly more elegant.  
It has been the epicentre of wealth and style since Caroline of Monaco came to live a “normal life” here in the eighties, transforming what was once a sleepy village into one filled with bistros and art galleries. Interior design shops offer a bevy of beautiful objects far more exciting than in rustic Arles–such as the atelier of Caroline Ferri, who reupholsters Louis XV chairs in velvets and hand-painted silks.

Isn’t this exactly what you imagine Provence looks like? Fountains, such as this one celebrating hometown boy gone scary, Nostradamus, dot small squares. Shadows ark and trace the bendy mish mash of architecture, with 17th and 20th pressed up against one another like strangers at a dance.

It is a town for strolling and lollygagging. Café sitting and wishful thinking. Where the charm might seem a bit syrupy in the bulge of the summer high season but merely a touch sweet at any other point in the year. We weren’t alone. I watched the faces of those around us, looking up and out instead of at their feet and with couples displaying a far greater percentage of hand-holding than is ever seen in these parts. Remi and I actually came to St-Rémy the very first week that we met, so naturally I have a soft spot for it as well, sentimental as I am.

What is constantly amazing to me in Provence is that it is still affordable to live here, if that is what interests you. Now, I am not saying that you can have all of this lushness on your terms. No, not necessarily. For example, the idea of buying in St-Rémy remains elusive to our dwindling budget. To rent, however, remains entirely possible. We visited two properties. One with wavy, aged windows that unfortunately opened on to the main parking lot for 640 Euros per month and a charming village house with a tiny but private terrace for 825. I must say we were tempted. By its secret entryway just off of our favorite square, its generous proportions. Less so by the lack of light but it was something to consider. Especially after the estate agent called to tell us that the price had been lowered to 800. 

But something is holding us back. Arles, the elusiveness of it. It’s incredibly frustrating but wonderful somehow. Do you know Bizet’s opera “L’Arlesienne”? Yes, the beautiful girl that you desire after who always remains just out of reach…

Just the salad, please

Now that sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it? Just a little salad, that’s all! Well, yes, this is France and I am talking about a salade composée, a composed salad. No, not composed as in calm (though I must say it gives me a terribly peaceful just looking at it), composed as in built. Constructed layer by layer. So an oh-so innocent beginning of mesculun leaves quickly becomes swallowed by tomatoes and hearts of palm–veggies!–then a smattering of…avocado…um…then…lardons (ok, bacon)…fried goat cheese…and topped with a boiled egg. At least the egg is boiled! The dressing is a homemade mustard vinaigrette that is so thick that you could stand a spoon up in it. But it is fresh! Good for you! Sigh. We do try to be good but somehow even with the best intentions, gourmandise always wins.

Yes and no

My Mom surprised me the other day with a comment that shouldn’t have, I suppose. “You know that people think of your life as glamorous, whether it is or not to you.” I forget that at times, as well as the assumptions, the easy clichés tacked on to the idea of living in France, let alone Provence. It hasn’t always helped me with my relations that are far away. When I was working full time as a travel writer? Yes, that I agree was decidedly the stuff that glamorous dreams reside on. I spent my 35th birthday as a producer for Remi’s ad for Apple at a luxury camp that we had hired out in Botswana, along with their trained elephants. Once the shot was in the can, we cracked a bottle of Veuve and then headed off on safari, where I spotted the Momma lion and her cubs before flying out in a private plane towards home. Now, that, to me, counts.
In this odd time while I am not working, when we are posing mega questions about everything–where we should live, what we should do, let alone truly feeling the pinch of not having money coming in–no, it doesn’t feel so heady. Remi is pushing so hard to make things happen, to advance on his projects that I worry, even though I understand. So at times we find ourselves brushing up against a fistful of ‘no’s. 

Although it may seem that we spend our days aimlessly slicing through the region, all is done with the  goal of advancing Remi’s current project. Every kilometre is counted, especially as the price of gas (or petrol) is roughly seven times what it is in the States. So imagine our frustration when, after nearly two hours of searching, we arrived at our first stop, only to find that it was on private property? Barred. Or that the scenic point on the infamous Col de la Madeleine (often the back-breaker and occasional life-taker on the Tour de France) was actually an unmarked bunker from the Second World War? Scarred. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Germans or French using this lookout. Or both. 

The clouds seemed to suck up all of the ash that swirled above the vineyards and orchards where farmers burnt last year’s branches. A false evening surrounded us, covering the thousand year old Notre Dame d’Aubion all too soon. “What a shame, ” an elderly gentleman out walking with his daughter noted about our visit, “Yesterday was perfect.” He shrugged and tottered on. The church’s tower, supposedly founded by Charlemagne, seemed to pull away from my regard.

Now do I sound a bit whiny? I don’t mean to and I am well aware that those of you who visit this blog from afar, from Albania or Brazil (which thrills me to no end, truly I am delighted) are not necessarily interested in what doesn’t work but by what does. So where is the “yes”? Happily, everywhere but only when I could let myself see it. In the earth sprouting wildly, scenting the air with almond tree blossoms that seem too soon, too good to be true. In the rustle of sleeping olive groves. Ben running so hard amongst them that he bounces like a rabbit. In the base beat of a new musical find thrilling us over the hills as we bounce along in our beat up Range Rover. That Remi and I can shake off our disappointments and not end up getting into a petty fight over a strange day that we can’t help but take personally. To end up laughing. Yes, yes and yes.

Proof

For all of the nay-sayers that have wagged their heads surreptitiously because I dared believe in the power of Spring, I insist that it is indeed on its way. And finally, I have proof. After months of watching the buds on our camellia tree swell from peas to olives to Brussels sprouts, they have simultaneously exploded in a riot of hot pink.  Which I find a rather funny joke on the part of Mother Nature after all of our efforts to plant an all-white, uber-elegant garden. Little did we know. Out of nowhere pops in a wacky aunt from Tuscon with a “Yee-haw!”
But apparently it is the color of the day, as touted by no less than the ever inspiring Scott Schuman, who is showing just such a color on his “blog that broke the sound barrier”, the Sartorialist. It might very well be a fitting reaction to what has otherwise been a disappointingly disparate NYC Fashion Week. My goodness, all of the nods to the 90s just seem so out of the blue–and I am not talking about the one hanging over the garden…
When current fashion darling Jason Wu referred to how the women in that time dressed “as a means of expressing themselves” my immediate reaction was, “Well don’t they always?” True, I might be missing something here, having grown into my heels during that very age in that very town where it was an adventure to run to the corner deli or Duane Reade. But it was, of course, a self-imposed challenge, as I was always only dressing for myself. Who are women dressing for today? And why on earth are they paying so much for style that isn’t their own? Yes, I realize that I am sounding more Frenchy than American in saying so, but trust me, these are my guns and I am sticking to them.
One last little bit of query before I hoist up my Côte du Rhône (times is tough, kids), who on earth OKed the “$100 for a weekend in Paris” article in the NY Times? Now I worship at the Times altar but this one left me stupefied as the author skims the surface of Paris in a way that makes you wonder “Why go?”. I certain can only imagine the folks across the US trying to see his reasoning in hanging out at beer halls in the City of Light. If you want to know the feeling of Paris, let me know. I’ll take you there. And it just might leaving you tickled…well, you know.
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