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I try to keep the photoshop shenanigans in hand with all that I share with you here. No instagramy apps or lily-gilding. Call me old-school (by all means) but what motivates me, especially for this blog, is to share the abounding beauty of Provence. And honestly, that does not require any special effects. Just a simple point in any general direction and a click will do.

Hooowever. As we were whisking around our charming Australian visitor the other afternoon in the cold (“Olive groves to your left, vineyards to the right!”), some dial or other must have turned while I was pulling my camera in and out of my pocket. As we headed into the village of Les Baux, suddenly every little snap was tainted with a roguish glow and I didn’t know what to do. I desperately pawed at various buttons with frozen fingertips to no avail. Could I have simply asked Remi what was wrong? Absolutely. But then I would have been met with “Did you read the book that I gave you about the camera?” and I would have pressed my lips together impishly, defeated. So I said nothing and clambered over the cobblestones, trying to keep up. 

I have written about Les Baux de Provence before, a few times actually and in various seasons. It is for most of the year one of the most frequented sites touristiques français in the region. Thousands upon thousands of visitors clamour for a hint of Les Baux’s grand past replete with warriors and troubadours, all while being serenaded by the mechanical hiccups of ceramic cicadas Made in China. But not today. 

For we were completely and utterly alone. Surprisingly so. The shops were shuttered and only our footsteps echoed, bitten back metallic with the snap of the wind.

Stammeringly, I kept trying to explain how unique of a moment it was to our young Aussie friend but how could she understand? 

That doorway that so many seek had somehow opened for us. It seemed like a private joke between  Provence and I. So I kept the photos just as they are, me sweet on them, their little sepia lie and that indefinable something threading the in-between of time.

Well, I will keep moving forward in the right direction…

…but bundled up (our sweet visitor from Australia has been swathed in a puffer) because despite appearances this ain’t L.A. and Baby, it’s cold outside!

Have a great Weekend everyone!

Ooh! ps. I am experimenting a bit with putting comment approval and word verification back on as the spam is getting out of control. Hating it? Don’t mind at all? Any thoughts are welcome…

Eh, voila. A wee post of what could have been. For Sunday evening was the absolutely splendiferous celebration of the “closing of the opening weekend ceremony” (yep, I know awkward phrasing) to herald Arles’ participation as part of Marseille-Provence 2013, where France’s second largest city and surrounding region (hence us) are this years European Capital of Culture. Now, if you don’t live in Europe that might not sound like much of a big deal but I can assure you, it is. Many millions of Euros float thither and there to build museums and create projects, enticing architects and des artistes de renom. 

I have already written about Groupe F, one of the world’s greatest pyrotechnic companies, who just so happen to be based outside of our little town. Multiple Olympic ceremonies? The celebration of the anniversary for the Eiffel Tower? Turn the world’s tallest building into a sparkling sprinkler?* No problem. These folks (meaning a team with as many experts as the special effects department on an action blockbuster) have it all covered. So, it is probably no surprise that everyone was all a twitter (small t and big) over what they might offer along the banks of the Rhone.

Alas, I have a Golden Retriever. His name is Ben. Like many of his race he is extremely sensitive, most certainly when loud noises are concerned. Doggie Xanax and Bach’s Rescue Remedy are to no avail. And so my poor sweetie is driven to extremes in such a situation. As in hiding under the toilet or the tails of my Ungaro leopard print bath robe, scratching at the tiles after jumping in the shower with whining distress. 

So, after *pif* with the first photo, I was in the bathroom with Ben for the next of the 35 minutes, holding him down when I could, consoling and trying to distract when possible. I don’t complain. My dear Ben brings me more happiness than money can buy and of course we take care of our puppers because we love them like family.

As the grand finale faded into silence, I turned to him and whispered, “See? It is over. Over.” He did a double take (I swear) then looked out, listening before finally succumbing to a giant sigh. After hanging out on the bathroom floor for an additional five minutes juuust to be suuure, he treaded carefully out into the dangerous lands of the “unknown” aka our apartment.

Not to worry–as I know you do–he is fine now. The photo is proof. If his expression looks rather, say, exasperated it is simply because I had the nerve to be typing at 7:02pm when Bone Delivery must occur by 7 at the very latest. And we all know that Ben always gets what he wants. He has even written written a helpful guide on that very subject.

Well, there will be other ceremonies. And as it seems that 15,000 spectators turned out to simultaneously ooh and ahh, I am content to have stayed home. There are many special events during 2013, more on which as they approach. Unfortunately, as Arles is on Provence Time (the land where it took five weeks to get the door of our washing machine repaired), some of the most impressive projects will not be ready until the end of the year or, ironically, 2014. But this remains a moment if ever there was one to visit Provence for those who have been considering it–and you know who you are!

Thank you so much to all of you that sent along “get well” wishes. They worked! All better now…hooray!

*Ok, I can’t resist one Groupe F video (not to be watched while at work):

“Regarde la lumière,” Remi and I will often call out to one another these days. We are talking about that last shot of good gold that bounces off the rooftop visible from both of our desks separated by a thin wall. We have the same view and more often than not, the same point of view too.

Last night after a moment of mutual silent admiring, I fed Ben quickly, grabbed my camera and wrapped myself up like a moving mummy to head out into the cold.

You see, I have been under the weather. Not to worry, I haven’t succumbed yet to the terrible rounds of flu treason that have been roaming the earth but I am fighting off a what they call here a gastro or stomach bug. As a result of some of our more exotic travels to precarious places, I like to think that I have an iron skillet stomach but I still succumb to waves of grogginess, ones that leave me slightly separated, as if I were looking at the world behind the branches of a barren tree…

or on the other side of bars that are nothing like a prison…

…for it can be pleasant not to fight it, this sweet sleep-walking…

…following light’s lure…

…and soft fade of winter.

I stop to regard a captured star…

Ben sits on top of my feet patient and looking out.

The longer we stay, the more my eyes calm…rough forms turn elegant…

…and I wonder at those monuments that I have looked upon a thousand times before.

At the lights last whisper, I listen and turn to look down the old cardo, this same Roman road.

The trees. 

They protect.

Give comfort.

And somehow are more beautiful to me on this winter’s evening than ever a summer day.

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend…