We are off for a few days of adventure and important business. Wish us luck and I will be back with tales from the big city upon our return…
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Bien Arrivé!
Well, the third Thursday in November has nothing to do with turkey preparation in France. No tips on cranberry dotted asaigo infused stuffing either. It is the date, mandatory by law, when the Beaujolais Nouveau can be sold to the public. From one minute after midnight, all over the world, let the corks pop! Now truly, this is one of biggest press relations coups of all time because have you really been counting down the hours until you can gulp a fruity beverage guaranteed to give you a sharp headache after the first glass? I didn’t think so. But then again, no one actually enjoys that green beer on Saint Patty’s day either. Perhaps any excuse for a celebration is valid? Certainly during the beginning of the mad rush into the holidays? Having had the good fortune to have helped a local amateur winemaker last year–from the back-breaking task of cutting the grapes off the vine to crushing them then transferring them into the giant Provençal glass jugs for the fermentation process–I can appreciate the anticipation linked with wanting to taste a wine that has barely been in the bottle for a few weeks. Perhaps it will give the promise of good things to come…
Jean-Michel, our caviste, or wine-seller, has assured me that this year is “very good”. Would he tell me if it wasn’t? Well yes, good customers always get the truth around here. And though Chez Ariane, the wine bar that I have written about, has closed the street off for music and dancing–a buvette, as it is called–I am warmly ensconced in my club chair, about to lift a glass of Syrah (gasp!) to my lips. Salut!
Amongst the ruins
In 1909, what was apparently a pretty rough and tumble earthquake rippled across the plains above Salon de Provence, in particular doing extensive damage to the village of Vernegues. Photos from the aftershocks show moustachioed men holding heavy bowler hats over their hearts as they clambered over the remains of their houses. What remained? Only the fortified chateau grasping at the top of a hill like a raven’s claw and the shell of the 13th century Saint Jacques Church.
Now, I don’t know where you were in the 1200s but there was obviously quite a lot going on in this church. It still has the resonance of centuries of weddings, births, deaths and a whole lot of faith within its scarred walls. And I can tell you this much, this was not a church to impress the visitors to the region, it was for the locals, by the locals. No austerity here, even though so little is left save for the graffiti of the passerby.
There is an enduring sense of peace and it is catching. Ben was delighted.
This massive, twisted, straight out of Sleepy Hollow almond tree has also stood the test of time, undoubtedly hundreds of years old and the church’s unofficial guardian. It looks as if it could reach out and whip you if you didn’t behave.
And, because this is France, at the edge of this forgotten site is one lovely little salon du thé serving far, far more than tea. Oh for the truly merited joy of taking in the sun on a mid-November day under a giant platane tree with a bit of Cotes du Rhone in my glass and the most lovely foie gras salad on my plate. Yes, yes, I know. Foie gras plus salad equals an oxymoron. But look at that fantastic circle of it, alongside the sliced magret de canard, a few greens and, the star of the show, a sautéed “escalope” of the foie gras served with a pretty scrumptious chutney and sweet triangles of spice bread. Our neighbors were all equally delighted by the surprise of the day, the food, the charmingly shy “patronne” who clasped her hands in front of her chest while she spoke. The positive energy of that former village remained amongst the ruins, showing us that history is often more alive than we think.
Renovation
I love the messiness of Arles, the unperfectness of it. When we first visited in 2003, there were dozens of cats skittering through streets topped with flapping laundry hanging between windows, à la Sicile. At that time there were more houses that were closed up, abandoned-looking, than alive. Things have changed. And while our scruffy town doesn’t resemble the pitch perfect pastels of some our neighbors, it is growing up at a rapid pace. Work teams are everywhere, pounding and shaping, revealing and polishing.
The renovation of the Arena is an on-going and at times, hotly debated issue. As the last quarter of scaffolding is raised, there are plenty who prefer it as it was, as if wreathed in the smoke of a million Gauloises. But better to let it stand a few thousand years more–on that we can all agree. The “hotel particulier” or bourgeois mansion across from it was put up for auction last year. I had heard at the time that despite its beautiful facade, there was at least an equal amount to the asking price (starting at something like 700K if memory serves) needed to make it habitable. “Oui,” nodded the mason that I asked as he mixed his cement. From “A à Z” he confirmed, the floorboards to the attic.
It is not just time but history that has taken its toll on these old stones. Buildings in certain neighborhoods have iron bands like yawning “y”s to hold together their sides, put in place after my fellow Americans did such a shoddy job of bombing the bridge during World War II (they even destroyed Van Gogh’s house to boot, something that you will never, ever hear the slightest complain about here).
The roof tiles below are not far from the ancient “jambieres”, translating to something not far from leggings (!) as they were originally molded on a mans thigh. As I have mentioned before, Arles is protected as a World Heritage Site and the Batiments de France is very picky about what type of materials can be used and has a final say in all of the work that is done down to the color of the shutters (however jobs done at midnight, in August, well, amazingly they seem to slide by unnoticed).
The architect that bought this exceptional town house hounded the previous owner for years to sell it. Over the course of a year he has managed to reveal its great bones and presence. I passed the day that one of his assistants used a mini jack-hammer to lift off thick layers of cement encasing the ground floor exterior. He plans to turn that space into a gallery/antique store.
All of this to suggest that it is wonderfully positive to live in an environment that is perennially changing. There is movement here in so many ways, not only in cleaning up the past but in shaping the future as well–but of that, another time. As if on cue, even the leaves outside my front door have burst and tumbled, preparing themselves for the winter and then, a renouvellement, another type of renovation, as the French would say.
Sunday in the country
It is a well-loved tradition in France but one that, until fairly recently, I didn’t have much opportunity to partake of. The Sunday lunch, a gathering of family and friends, where the entire day is set aside for just being together. Arles is famously closed off, a town where the locals proudly proclaim the number of generations that they have been here, using the term “pure suche” or “pure roots”, one that is vaguely Naziesque if you ask me. All of this to say that it has taken time for us to make friends, to find our way here. Ben was a godsend in that sense. It is fairly safe to say that only kindly folks like dogs or have them. So it is with Anne, who we crossed so often in our hikes in the Alpilles that we finally made it official over drinks and have remained close ever since. She is a sculptor, who, along with Jean-Pierre, her world-travelling husband, have renovated a bergerie, or sheep’s hut in the most beautiful, hidden corner of the Vallée des Baux or Baux Valley. They are, quite simply, one of the more elegant couples that I have ever met and, as is often the case, one of the most gracious hosts.
Champagne and home-made foie gras to welcome in the holiday season awaited us (why are we always the last to arrive no matter how hard we try not to be?). Caviar and blinis followed, then a pot au feu that had been cooked until the meat was falling off the bone. Apple crumble to finish. All of this accompanied by a wonderful Pic Saint Loup (little known in the States but one of my favorite appelations for its earthiness) and a dash of vodka to go with the caviar for the brave. Ten at the table, the conversation at times sounded like a symphony to my American ears, one too dissonant for me to add my notes to. It was a welcome effort to bundle up for the walk to the lake, a former mine that glows turquoise with its mineral deposits. I tottered along in my high heels, Burberry trench draped over my shoulders. Sunday lunch has the slightest ring of formality to it, rendering it all the more special. The group split into twos and threes, the wind rustling through the olive groves drowning out the conversations. A final tea to warm up and then we regretfully took our leave, phone numbers exchanged with new acquaintances and grateful bisous pecked on the cheeks of our friends.
