The word mistral derives from the medieval word “masterly.” The constant hard, cold wind that blasts in from the north at speeds as high as fifty-five miles per hour depresses some people. Others become nauseated, irritable, and lethargic. Because Provence is so dry and sunny, mistrals spread fires that destroy acres of forests annually. On the plus side, they clear the air of dust and pollution and literally blow the clouds away. Indeed, the clarity of the air is one of the factors that attracted impressionist artists like Van Gogh to Provence. On the minus side, Van Gogh cut off a piece of his ear during one mistral and committed suicide during another.
We retreat to our house. Walking is nearly impossible. Biking is out of the question. Mme Brihat has warned us. Even though I’m wearing glasses, my eyes fill with grit. Walking home, leaning in against both the cant of the street and the opposing force of the wind, we barely make it to our front door. Once inside, I notice that Larry’s Lycra biking shorts, which I’d hung on the ramparts to dry, are gone. I propose that we take a quick run around the neighborhood. Larry defers. “There’s no point in looking for them. They’re probably in St. Pants by now.”
The mistral is not like any wind we’ve ever heard or experienced. Once I’m safely indoors, I like it. It sounds like a monster sighing: whew, whew, whew. Its force bends trees and wraps around the house. Its song climbs the scale from a slow bass rumble, like drumming thunder, to a breathy, whistling, mournful soprano. The mistral will return prematurely many times this September, driving us indoors, forcing us to relax.
How did le patron know precisely when the mistral would arrive? The answer is La Météo, the weather report. The French in general are preoccupied with the weather, no doubt because French weather is so variable. But there’s more to it than that. The French have a snobbish attitude toward weather; they don’t think that nature should inconvenience them. This may go some way toward explaining why those who report the weather tend to play to their audience in tones of shock and disbelief, as if snow in winter were an unexpected calamity or rain an absurd surprise. Even the press makes fun of their countrymen’s weather obsession, calling them “météo-dependent.” They treat television weatherwomen like rock stars. One channel runs a competition for Mlle Météo. The Provençales are even more météo-dependent due to le mistral.
Sure enough, after three days the mistral blows itself out, just as the proprietor of Le St-André predicted, and we venture out. So does M. Giles the elder, who, along with his retired cronies, takes his place against the wall. They don’t even bother to greet one another with the preemptory “Ça va.” Instead, the most urgent subject on everyone’s agenda is the weather. “Quelle horreur!” they complain. The first words out of the butcher’s mouth when Larry visits his shop are “Quel temps de merde!” The butcher wants to know how Americans say that.
“What shitty weather,” Larry says, who by now has become quite expert on the various idiomatic uses of merde.
Monique claims there’s a conversational hierarchy in Provence: first the weather, then murders, thefts and break-ins, and finally personal problems. But there’s one exception. It is considered gauche to talk about the weather at dinner parties. Those occasions are reserved for violent political disputes. And one more weather alert: the Provençaux do not take kindly to outsiders who complain about their weather.
The Uncommon Market
French supermarkets no longer hold mystery or challenge; even the weekly outdoor markets that used to be so thrilling now feel repetitive. The scales have fallen from our eyes. We notice that the same vendors tend to make the rounds of the same towns.
Did we really think they only worked one day a week? Their faces are as familiar as their goods: the olive lady, the cheese guys, the wild strawberries, the lipsticks, the kitchen devices, the sausages, the gardening shears, the gleaming rows of bright-eyed fish, the rayon dresses, the rôtisserie chickens, and yet another large wicker basketful of heartbreaking, darling little puppies and piglets. Except for the grattons man, the market at L’Isle no longer excites as it once did. We’ve gotten used to it. That had to happen. In the markets, every day is groundhog day.
“Too many tourists,” Larry complains as he tries to make his way through the swirling crowds.
Four seasons ago, when we lived in Saumane, we used to shop in a nearby farmer’s market held on the outskirts of Velleron, just off the main highway between L’Isle and Carpentras. Now that we live in Bonnieux, Velleron is about forty-five minutes away. Still, in this, our season of impending ennui, it’s worth the trip. We blend into a press of locals, baskets in hand, waiting behind locked gates. When they are opened, we run the gauntlet with the rest. The surge starts out frantic, like a potato sack race, but within a few moments the shoppers have dissipated and calmed down.
Perhaps as many as fifty local farmers drive their trucks onto a scruffy field and line them up in two rows, with the opened backs of the trucks facing one another, creating an aisle for customers as wide as a highway and as long as a New York city block. Some vendors don’t have trucks. They set up their wares on tables. Some wear berets and the now faded traditional deep blue cotton jackets of French workers. Others wear aprons over T-shirts or conventional short-sleeved shirts. The female vendors, in contrast to their more stylish female counterparts in L’Isle sur la Sorgue, wear well-worn, unfashionable cotton dresses.
There are few, if any, tourists in the market today. Even though we think we blend in with the crowd, apparently we don’t. It’s the usual problem. Our clothes aren’t quite right, and besides, Larry’s got his camera out. He’s photographing the merchants. What faces! The men’s, especially, are tanned and lined from lifetimes in the outdoors, squinting at the sun.
“Their faces seem veneered,” says Larry, “like faces in a Rembrandt portrait.” Life often reminds Larry of art.
There’s a policewoman at the market. She approaches us and asks if we’re English. When people try to guess, they usually guess either English or German. That’s probably because there haven’t been many Americans in France lately. When we tell her we’re from the United States, she gives us two thumbs-up and asks if Larry would please take her picture with me and the woman from whom I’ve just bought some apricot juice.
Larry explains to them that in the United States, when people are having their pictures taken, they say “cheese” in order to create the impression of a smile. “Cheese,” he explains, is English for fromage.
“But don’t say fromage,” he hastens to add. Unfortunately he has confused them. When we develop the film, their mouths are hanging open.
Velleron makes the weekly markets seem faux. The fact that it doesn’t open until six in the evening, in my eyes, adds to its legitimacy. I like to think that during that very day, the farmers were busy digging up their goods and loading them onto their trucks.
Some vendors—often the women—have only one or two items to sell: homegrown honey, melons, pumpkins, and somebody’s special confiture d’oignons. Some trucks are packed with a variety of produce, eggs, and chickens. These probably belong to the full-time farmers. What could be more legit than buying carrots, soil still clinging from their threadlike roots, from a guy with dirt under his fingernails?
My attention is drawn to an elderly women, sitting behind a table, selling eggs from a woven reed basket. I recognize her from four years ago. Then she was standing behind a table loaded with purple grapes and peaches. Her arms were plump and sturdy. Her thick, pure white hair was twisted and pinned up in a neat knot near the top of her head. Her face was weathered, her features classic. I could imagine her finely sculpted profile in bas relief on a coin. She looked so striking that Larry took her picture.
Now she is sitting, her shoulders are bent, and a strand of her thinning white hair has fallen from her bun and lies against her cheek. She is thinner. Her hands are more gnarled.
I want to go up to her and say, “Bonjour, Madame.
” I want to tell her that I remember her. I want to tell her that I bought grapes from her, right on this spot, four years ago. I want her to remember me. But of course she wouldn’t. I am connected to her by a fine filament of time. I have cast her in a drama of my own creation and given myself a walk-on part. I don’t need to talk to her. It’s better if I don’t. For me she is emblematic of what is left of the real Provence I seek. Alain Prétot is my Provençal man incarnate. She is my rural Marianne.
We travel even farther afield to Arles in search of new marketing experiences. Most tourists go there to see the Coliseum, but at an entry fee of 35 euros per person, we settle for the view from the outside.
The marketplace is at least as extensive as the Sunday market in L’Isle. It starts at the RhÔne River, where two lions on pillars guard the watery gateway to the city, and goes on for several long blocks.
Just when we’d thought we’d seen it all, Arles offers something new in Provençal marketplaces, a substantial Arab population. Their swarthy complexions, language, costumes, and customs add an exotic, foreign flavor that contrasts with the Gallic population that dominates the markets we have known.
At times it is difficult to move because of the shopping baskets, both handheld and rolling, and the profusion of strollers. Arabs love children and are inclined to have lots of them. They also like to stop and greet one another, which, when done the Arab way, holds up foot traffic. A “Ça va” spoken in passing won’t do. First there is the requisite “Peace be upon you with Allah’s mercy and blessings,” spoken in Arabic. Next a double kiss, a ritual touching of the heart with the right hand, followed by lingering handshakes that must take place both upon meeting and parting. In between handshakes, it is only polite to inquire at length about the well-being of the entire family.
We get so literally caught up in the souk-like clusters of socializing Arabs that we never make our way to the food stalls. Instead, we are content to watch and admire their traditional, leisurely manners and enjoy the mysterious sounds of their language. We love being out of our element.
Real Live Tourists
We are nearing the end of the month. We drive to Avignon to pick up our friends, Tracy and Gloria Sugarman. They aren’t staying with us. They have rented a room in a bed-and-breakfast in Lourmarin, a tiny plus beau village near Bonnieux.
We are eager to reunite with these good friends and to show off Provence and our French selves. After all, Tracy and Gloria are guests in our country. They can’t speak a word of our language—maybe merci and bonjour but not much else. They are depending on us to show them a good time.
We meet them at the Avignon hotel where they have been staying for the past two nights, touring the town. We assault them with triple kisses—delivered, comme il faut, left, right, left. Then we escort them to our car.
So far Tracy and Gloria have been having what most people would call a terrible time. Tracy his lost his wallet somewhere between the TGV railroad station in Avignon and the hotel. His wallet contains what most travelers’ wallets contain—his credit cards, his driver’s license, and all of his dollars and euros. He is a man without a country or a currency. Still, they are in the highest of spirits as we make our way toward Lourmarin.
Most people would panic, berate themselves, or, my personal favorite, berate each other, but the Sugarmans are not like most people, which is one of the reasons we like them. Both of them verge on pathologically happy. They were not going to let a total disaster get them down. It was nighttime when they arrived in Avignon. They were hungry. Luckily, Gloria had some cash.
They find their way to Le Bistro Lyonnaise, the place where I told my dud of a joke. Earlier, when we first helped them to plan their visit, we had urgently recommended the place. We assured them that the food was delicious, the atmosphere special, and that proprietor spoke perfect English.
“Talk to him,” I had said. “Ask him if he remembers the woman who told the complimentary peanut joke.”
They are greeted by M. Meduan, who does, indeed, remember the joke. Seeking an opportunity to speak English, he brings the Sugarmans their drinks, perches at their table, and engages them in conversation. It doesn’t take long before Tracy tells the proprietor the tale of the missing wallet. M. Meduan is instantly sympathetic. He is determined to help them, especially after further conversation reveals that Tracy was a small boat officer during the invasion at Normandy during the Second World War.
So determined is M. Meduan, now “Yves,” to help the Sugarmans that he closes the restaurant early and escorts them to the gendarmerie and the préfecture, just in case their property is retrieved, and then drives them back to their hotel.
“He couldn’t have been kinder,” says Tracy. “We had a wonderful time. Who says the French aren’t nice?” We love that they love our countrymen.
First, we install them in their bed-and-breakfast in Lourmarin. We roll their suitcases down the winding, cobbled main street. The Sugarmans slow down to admire the cafés, art galleries, boutiques, the tea house, the bookstore—all the places we’ve enjoyed in seasons past.
“Albert Camus lived here,” says Larry. “There’s a street named after him, and he’s buried in the local cemetery.”
“Oh, let’s go there,” says Gloria.
“Let’s get settled first,” says Tracy.
Bernadette is the name of the proprietor of this shabby chic 1820s villa. We first encounter her in the magnificent walled garden of the villa. Old and bent, she shows us around the downstairs common rooms. They are authentically dark and decadent. In some places, the walls, which are crowded with paintings, are made of rough plaster. In other places, they are covered in patterned cloth dating from the Victorian era. The floors are sometimes stone and sometimes tile. The windows are covered in heavy linen drapes. Bric-a-brac and sprigs of faded lavender collect webs and dust on the shelves.
“Perfect,” says Gloria.
All the while, we are speaking French to Bernadette. She is predictably impressed that Larry and I can speak as well as we do. Gloria and Tracy, who don’t speak French, are even more impressed.
“Amazing,” says Gloria. “We’d take you for natives.”
“I didn’t know you guys were fluent!” says Tracy.
“We’re not really,” I demur, but I am unaccountably delighted that they think we are.
Then we take them to our house. They love the three-story tower. They love ramparts. They love the kitchen, where Tracy hits his head. They love the view. Tracy, a professional writer and illustrator, can’t wait to get out his sketchpad.
“The view is wonderful, wonderful,” says Gloria, who gets redundant when she’s happy.
“It is fabulous,” I say, seeing it as if for the first time.
“See that crenellated castle over there?” Larry points straight out and a bit to the west. “That’s where the Marquis de Sade lived; now the castle belongs to Pierre Cardin.”
“And just wait until 9:06 p.m.,” I say, picking up on the tour. “The tower lights up little by little over a period of minutes. It’s breathtaking.”
They can’t wait until 9:06 p.m. Neither can we.
But first we meet Ulli at Le Fournil for dinner. Our delightfully impressionable friends are amazed to be eating dinner in a cave and pleased to see Ulli, whom they had met the year before, when she and Bettina were visiting us in Connecticut. They are happy to see one another again.
We are speaking English. Of course we are! It’s our mother tongue! But somehow, with the arrival of our guests from America, we now think of English as our second language.
The Sugarmans want to take it easy on the first full day, so we take them to Saignon.
“You’re going to love this place. It’s one of our favorites—so peaceful and beautiful,” we say as we wind our way up the hill. Being in the role of tour guides revivifies our enthusiasm for places we know well, so well, in fact,
that we had been in danger of taking them for granted. We’re going to love this place, too.
We introduce them to the statue of Ceres and then find seats at the outdoor café, where we enjoy our Oranginas and the view.
“Heavenly,” says Gloria.
“Paradise,” says Tracy.
“Yup,” says Larry, as if he owns it. “Nice little place.”
The pealing of bells from the church nearby interrupts our tranquility. It’s a wedding! At least thirty formally dressed French men and women exit the church door, followed by the bride and groom. In an instant, we are on our feet, applauding the couple, mingling with the crowd. We take pictures of the newlyweds as if we were their relatives.
The next day, we head out on a nostalgia tour of our former houses. In Saumane de Vaucluse, we tell and show them the natal de Sade castle. They are enchanted. We tell and show them about how we thought Lou Clapas was a food chain and enjoy a laugh all over again. We tell about what an adventure it was to replace the broken glass shelf in the fridge.
In Goult, we order coffee at Le Café de la Poste. “That’s where we lived,” says Larry, pointing to the house across the way.
Ever since our guests have arrived, we have taken on new identities. We are French tour guides who speak English fluently. Our pretentions to be French have reached new and satisfying heights of faux-ness. We are experts on whatever it is we choose to show them, and we choose to show them what we know best and enjoy most about Provence.
Playing House in Provence Page 15