And the cheese displays! For those who didn’t know a good deal about cheese, it would be worthwhile to bring a guide along. It was not a simple matter of choosing a cheddar or a Brie or a goat cheese. Taste, texture, smell—goat, cow, sheep—there was so much to take into account. She considered herself a fairly sophisticated cheese connoisseur, but one look at the choices these fromagers presented had altered that thinking.
As she continued to wander, Arianna found herself considering just how much her thinking had been expanded in many more ways than cheese. In just short of a week, through the kindness of strangers, she was learning to open herself to life again, to laugh, and to be excited about art.
It was all much more than she had expected. Now she had to convince herself that she could take all of that back home with her and keep the momentum going. She thought about the myriad art galleries in Toronto she could spend untold days visiting. She would get involved in the Art Gallery of Ontario volunteer program again.
Maybe even rent some small studio space in one of the many art collectives I’ve read about . . .
As she continued her musing, she dreamily noticed a most commanding aroma floating from shallow paella pans bubbling away on gas cookers that drew long lines of patient customers. Arianna stopped to breathe in the tempting combination of herbs, then suddenly felt a hand on her elbow, and her focus snapped back to the present.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What do you say? Should we cave and get some?” She turned to see the Mitchells. They debated the question for just a moment. “Those lines kill the idea for me,” Joan said, pointing to the crowd queuing in front of the paella pans, “but we just passed the most amazing pâtisserie stand. Let’s go get something there and have a coffee over by the carousel. Are you ready for a break, Arianna?”
Arianna readily agreed. Checking her watch, she was amazed to see she had been there for over two hours. “I’ve sampled so much already, I’m not sure I can eat another crumb of anything, but a coffee sounds good.”
“I know, us too!” Joan agreed. “It’s a fantastic market, isn’t it? But I can still do with something sweet . . . No problem there!”
John put his hand on Arianna’s shoulder, and his expression turned serious. “Remember my philosophy about ice cream? Well that works for sweets too. There’s that separate compartment!”
Laughing, they stopped at the stall Joan had mentioned. The array of pastries, cakes, and other assorted enticements was artfully arranged. Arianna could not resist the rows of macarons in every shade of the color spectrum.
“I’m going to take some of those back to the mas for everyone,” she announced. The vendor patiently placed her choices in a shallow box. Then he wrapped the box as carefully as a special gift. He took time to complete his task by tying a bright ribbon into a bow.
Arianna, Joan, and John watched with delight and all three uttered their thanks at his thoughtfulness. The vendor grinned, saying a cordial, “Pas du tout.”
Using hand signs and hilarious facial expressions, John assured him his purchase didn’t need to be wrapped, as it was going to be eaten immediately. Two slices of charlotte aux fraises were each placed in plastic containers. Joan had extracted a promise from Arianna that she’d share with them. Heaps of fresh strawberries topped creamy vanilla custard, all supported by sweet, spongy ladyfingers, making a rich, fragile treat.
They quickly walked through an extensive seafood section, giving each other eye rolls as they held their breath. Soon they found a table that was being vacated and congratulated themselves on their good timing.
After ordering coffee, they chatted about their morning experience as the town carousel whirled gaily behind them. The music was old-fashioned and repetitive, but they found it amusing rather than annoying.
The line of children snaked all the way around the square. They giggled and jostled each other as they waited for their turns.
“At least the kids have a good, long ride once they get on,” Joan observed, laughing at their antics. “They’re so cute . . . and they all speak such perfect French!”
“Trust Arles to have a black bull as one of the animals to ride on.” John chuckled. “It’s a true Camargue carousel.”
Within minutes, Bertram and Barbara spilled out of the market crowd and came to join their friends, pulling over a couple more chairs and placing a box of cherries on the table.
“I say!” Bertram exclaimed. “I’ve been through a lot of superb markets, but this is a real winner! What an outstanding assortment of products. And that cheese vendor by the memorial statue . . . best pastis I’ve tasted in years!”
“Bertie!” John said as he gave him a hearty pat on the back, “you even managed to have a snort at the market?”
Bertram chuckled and said he was sure the drink was offered because he had purchased a rather large round of Brie from the man. He put his bag on the table and lifted the hefty package out to show them.
“I thought we would enjoy it later. And Barbara bought these cherries, which will go very nicely together. No collaboration either! We just bumped into each other now. How about that?”
“Did we lose Cecilia?” Arianna asked.
“Oh, she was as happy as can be when I bumped into her a while back, taking notes, dictating, and photographing. That girl knows how to multitask!” Barbara said. “She said she would find her way home later.”
John walked over to a stall and begged two more plastic forks.
As they were poised to pass the sweet pastry around, Bertram held up his hand and, with a serious expression, intoned, “Wait! Before we delve into the deliciousness of this, let us first admire its pulchritude. Is it not a work of art? Are we not here to study art? It behooves us to express some thoughts, perhaps, about the color, the texture, the contrasts . . .”
Acknowledging the wide grins around the table, John said, “Bertie, I believe it behooves us to eat this work of art immediately. Barbara, please lead the way. Bon appétit!”
“Avec plaisir, monsieur,” Barbara replied as she sampled a dainty amount.
The others followed as Bertram continued to share his observations about the vibrant red and perfect shape of the strawberries, the delicate creamy sheen of the vanilla custard, and the fragile texture of the ladyfingers.
“Is that you or the pastis talking?” Joan teased him. “You better start eating before we finish it.”
They all shared the charlotte, smiles and murmurs of scrumptiousness accompanying each bite.
Sitting contentedly after they’d polished off the dessert, Arianna checked to make certain no one would be offended before she took her journal from her handbag.
They all laughed. “That’s one question you never need to ask this group! You should know that by now.”
“I can’t believe the number of photos I took this morning! It’s such a new thing for me . . . and so easy with these phones! I managed to squeeze in a few pages in here too, and now I want to get this view.”
She turned her attention to the carousel and the bustling market scene in the background.
“Good idea,” Barbara said as she did the same. “Arianna, you seem to have broken through your artistic block. I’m happy for you.”
The others offered words of agreement. Everyone had noticed.
Smiling, Arianna conceded she must be making headway. “Most importantly, I feel eager to be painting. I’m feeling the spark again.” She continued to sketch.
Joan and John were looking through their photos, most followed by murmurs of approval and the occasional burst of raucous laughter.
“Joanie has the best—but occasionally extremely weird—eye!” John explained.
Contentedly, Bertram took in the scene as he sipped on another pastis. “I should go buy some more cheese. That bloke’s pastis was better!”
All of a sudden, all their cell phones beeped. Maurice had texted to see where everyone was. He was waiting at the drop-off spot for those who wanted a ride now—or offe
red to return again later.
They looked at each other, and then Arianna said, “Bertram, would you be interested in taking us to the museum to see the Roman boat?”
Bertram looked surprised and pleased. He nodded enthusiastically as everyone else agreed it was a fine idea, then they texted the others to let them know what was up.
Maurice replied he would swing around the back street behind the carousel and collect their market goodies so they could get rid of their packages. John negotiated a beat-up empty box from one of the nearby produce vendors, and they all carefully placed their purchases in it.
“Look! The tourist office is right here,” Bertram said as they waited for Maurice to pick up the box. “Unless things have changed since the last time I was here, there’s a little navette . . . erm . . . a tourist bus that can take us to the museum. I’ll pop in and check the schedule. Back in a tick!”
John scratched his head and chuckled. “In a tick? That Bertie is so darn British, isn’t he?”
Money was left on the table for the coffee. Arianna commented how she liked the way the waiters left the bill every time they brought an order. “You never have to wait to pay. It works for everyone!”
The tourist bus pulled up at the stop right behind Maurice and beeped for him to get going. Free of their purchases, they quickly dashed to catch it. Marti, Lisa, and Cecilia met them at the museum.
Bertram relished his role as guide. Arianna noted how genuinely pleased he was to share his knowledge and to see their interest. His involvement in this project had been a highlight of his life, he reminded them, as he led them all in to sit and watch the impressive video.
There’s more to him than I first assumed. I know better than to make assumptions.
Somehow she had lost that attitude, along with a lot of others once important to her, in the recent past.
After the movie, Bertram ushered them to the display area with a grand flourish. Everyone stood spellbound.
The wooden boat, complete with mast, oars, and some tools, was exhibited in a bright, airy space that had been specially created. The openness and the lighting were perfectly planned and offered a breathtaking sense of history. The surrounding display of artifacts—recovered amphorae, jugs of all sizes, and other objects as old as the boat or older—were considered trash by the Ancient Romans, which they had tossed into the river for centuries.
They all agreed with Marti when she said, “This is a tale about which the city of Arles and everyone who worked on the project has every right to be proud.”
Bertram beamed.
“It truly takes your breath away.” Arianna sighed to no one in particular as she wandered from one exhibit to another in the spacious, modern building. “The visitor is transported back in time. The entire museum is a work of art.”
Bertram caught up with Arianna as she approached the other highlight of the museum.
“Here he is, Arianna. Meet Gaius Julius Caesar. Amongst other things he was a Roman general, an author of Latin prose, and a man who influenced my life. Quite a guy!”
“I’ll say,” Arianna agreed. “I can’t get over how well preserved the features are.”
“I would suggest he had the best mudpack facial ever”—he chuckled—“buried in the muddy Rhône for two thousand years or thereabouts. The best guess is that, after he was assassinated, this bust was tossed in the river. As I told you all before, when it was found, visitors flocked to view it from all over the world, and enough money was raised to make the boat project happen.”
“What a great story . . . and a fantastic outcome. Hail Caesar!”
Bertram smiled broadly, and Arianna thought he might actually get teary-eyed. “Hail Caesar, indeed. I know I told you that working on this project was what I’m most proud of in my life. Most of my time has been spent in laboratories and libraries doing research. This was my first opportunity in decades to truly apply what I had studied. Caesar kind of changed my life too. I’ll tell you about that some other time.”
Arianna wondered at his last comment. She made a mental note to follow up.
Then they all spread out around the museum with sketch pads, notebooks, and cameras. There was work to be done.
Later they gathered in the main entrance area.
A consensus was reached to catch the navette back to the tourist office and go to a bar for a drink. Dinner plans might follow. But Barbara and Arianna both decided to call it a night.
“It’s been a great day,” said Arianna by way of explanation. “In fact, my mind is going a mile a minute, and I want to get back to painting.”
Barbara smiled at her. “Do you want to walk back, Arianna? I would love to do that, and it won’t take us much longer than if we wait for Maurice, right?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’m glad you chose to walk back with me,” Barbara said as they wandered along one of the many cobblestone streets that led out of town. “We haven’t had a chance to really chat on our own.”
“I agree! This was a good idea,” Arianna said. “I’ve enjoyed the time I’ve spent with Cecilia. She’s so bubbly and full of life. Such a positive spirit! I love the fact that the two of you are traveling together.”
Barbara’s eyes twinkled with delight.
“Fortunately for both of us,” she said, “her husband is completely supportive. They also have a nanny who is Mrs. Doubtfire reincarnated, so my three little great-grandchildren are well looked after. Being away for this extended period is most unusual. She’s never taken so much time away before. But this trip was special, and we couldn’t pass it up! We figured we might never have the chance to do it again.”
“You were right to do it, because you just never know what life has in store around the corner. Sorry! I didn’t mean to sound so negative . . .” Arianna’s voice trailed off.
Barbara took Arianna’s hand in hers for a moment. “I know what you mean, and it’s not negative. It’s simply life. Grab opportunities when they present themselves! I have a friend who calls that being a possibilitarian. Great word, isn’t it? We should all be that!”
Sadness clouded Arianna’s face suddenly. “I wish I could, Barbara. I’m working on it, and I’ll take that word to heart.”
Taking in their surroundings, Barbara changed the subject. She was hoping to lift Arianna up on this stroll, not drag her down. She remarked on the ancient doors of the medieval residences they were passing. “This was obviously a poorer part of town back in the day, but not anymore! These cramped allées stir my heart! Do they yours? Cecilia and I have walked through such history these past few weeks, but I never tire of it.”
Arianna agreed, sounding enthusiastic again. “I’ve even been taking photos of buildings, shutters, and, yes, those doors . . . It’s something I’ve never done before. The urge to sketch them is growing, especially those fascinating keyholes!”
“That’s splendid news! I know you were searching for your muse.”
The two women locked gazes, transferring an understanding of shared experience. Barbara said quietly, “I’ve been there, my dear, not for the same reason, but I understand the struggle.”
“It has taken me most of this week to break through,” Arianna admitted. “I feel so fortunate that I ended up here with our little group in these inspiring surroundings. I had done a good job of denying how tightly I was locked inside myself.”
Barbara’s voice was almost a whisper. “It can happen so easily . . . to any of us . . .”
They walked quietly for a moment, neither quite ready to pursue that thought. Arianna sensed Barbara had something important to share with her. Something not easily expressed . . . something that might match Arianna’s own despair.
The only sign of activity on the street was a small dog briskly pattering along, focused on his path. Both women followed it with their eyes. Arianna thought it a welcome distraction just then.
“I’m always fascinated by how dogs in Europe seem to be such a part of life in small towns . . . citize
ns in their own right,” Barbara remarked. “We had such laughs watching them in the local piazze and campi in Venice. I find it so pleasing somehow.”
“It reminds me of growing up in Greece,” Arianna said with a chuckle. “We knew all the village dogs—and cats—and you are right. They are part of everyday life. Everyone knows them.”
“How long did you live there? What are your memories? Do you ever go back?”
Arianna was content to revisit those thoughts, sharing stories as they strolled. “It’s interesting, though,” she concluded. “I thought being in the French countryside might remind me of Greece, but it doesn’t. And I’m pleased to be having a completely new experience. It’s what I need.”
The peacefulness of the street captured their thoughts again, and they walked without speaking for a while.
“I thrive on being surrounded by this charm and antiquity,” Barbara murmured, seemingly hesitant to break the spell of their surroundings. “My only regret in life is that I didn’t travel like this sooner. It’s a lesson learned that I try to pass on to the younger people in my life. Just because your spouse, partner, whatever that person is called in these times, doesn’t wish to travel—don’t sacrifice your dreams like I did. I wish life had offered me more opportunities to paint scenes like this.”
Arianna smiled at her, nodding in agreement. “Is there something specific that calls to you, when you consider what you want to capture in your art here?”
“My passion is painting detailed scenes as opposed to focusing on a single element.” She stopped and gestured at the cobblestone lane. “I want to recreate the ambiance of this timeworn street, the buildings, the shutters, the rooftops—the entire milieu—and bring the viewer into it. I want them to hear the sounds, smell the scents in the air, feel the surroundings, as well as see the beauty.”
Drawing Lessons Page 16