Au revoir à Avignon

It was perhaps fortunate that we were numb from the seven-hour bus ride from Barcelona to Avignon – a ride that had stretched to eight and a half hours (see my earlier posting: “Life from both sides now”). Beyond the shift in language, it felt as though we had left the known world behind.

Old town, Avignon, the "City of Popes," is one of the few French cities whose ramparts remain fully intact.

It was cool – almost cold – as we made our way through the dark, empty lanes of the walled city. The relentless mistral (you remember: the wind that drove Juliette Binoche’s character to restlessness, if not distraction, in “Chocolat”) had a nagging wintery tinge to it. And after the genteel beauty of Spain, there was nothing to greet the eye but the oppressive, uniform drabness of unfinished stone and concrete.

But, we had committed ourselves.

And so we did our usual bit of settling in, which is to say, we weathered the now-familiar new-to-town blindness.

We first noticed this phenomenon in Munich. One of our earliest impressions of the city was that it was impossible to find a meat shop or grocery store that sold basics like chicken, the protein staple of our diet.

About three weeks in, I was back downtown one afternoon, again wandering Marienplatz and Viktualienmarkt. As if they had suddenly appeared, I counted nine little meat shops all lined up in a row, along a stretch of sidewalk we had covered numerous times.

Within minutes, I had also “discovered” a terrific fishmonger, another couple of butcher shops, and a half-dozen gorgeous fruit and vegetable stands, all of which we are looking forward to revisiting when we return to Munich later this week.

The same sort of thing happened in Avignon, but we now anticipate it.

We spent our first afternoon scouring the old town for a basic grocery store, settling finally for essentials at a shop clearly priced for the tourist trade. A week later, we could only laugh at the number of grocers that had unveiled themselves. We settled on Casino, just outside the ramparts, for our main shopping, and the much smaller Carrefour City, a few minutes from home, for the too-lazy-to-walk stuff.

On our second afternoon, a Sunday, we visited Pont St-Bénézet, the “Pont d’Avignon” of nursery rhyme fame in France and Canada, according to our audioguide. Bracing against the blasts of wind roaring down the Rhône valley, we didn’t doubt the pont’s one-time reputation for travellers being blown off of it. Another aspect of the bridge’s reputation was captured in what was apparently a popular 16^th century saying in France: one couldn’t cross the bridge without encountering “two monks, two donkeys and two whores.”

Marian, sur le Pont d'Avignon. Elle y danse, elle y danse. According to our audioguide, a popular expression in the 16th century, prior to the bridge losing 18 of its 22 arches, was that one could not cross le Pont St-Bénézet (the actual name of the bridge) without encountering at least "two monks, two donkeys, and two whores."

The following day, the mistral subsided and spring came to Avignon.

Approximately 12,000 of Avignon’s population of 95,000 live within the ramparts of the ancient city. That includes an envigourating base of young people that attend l’Université d’Avignon, also housed within the walls. Just as at home, as day-time temperatures crept up into the low- to mid-20s, the human race again blossomed.

On our penultimate weekend, we took advantage of beautiful Saturday afternoon weather to wander Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, the neighbourhood at the other end of the Pont d’Avignon, before it lost 18 of its original 22 arches.

Printemps des Familles was in progress, an event that reminded us of the Teddy Bear Picnic at home, with various kids’ activities taking place in the neighbourhood’s many small courtyards and squares. We looked in on the circus training activity and we were immediately welcomed by the youngish woman running the event to try our feet on the tight-wire.

Marian tries her feet on the tight-wire during Printemps des Familles in the Villeneuve lez Avignon neighbourhood.

It was one of those fleeting-but-beautiful, multi-lingual encounters that makes me love travelling. She most certainly helped shape our impression of France and I expect we shaped hers – for better or worse – of Canada.

On our final weekend, a similar family festival was taking place at Place des Carmes, in our own neighbourbood. Along with kids’ games, face-painting and the like, a steady stream of magicians, musicians, and jugglers were delighting the crowd. And they really were delighting the crowd.

Intent on getting our travel logistics nailed down, we only barely slowed down as we passed through the square on our way to the train station – twice. But when we did, the young women selling home-baked brownies (in French, they’re called “brownies”) seemed to delight in asking us about Canada, our stay in Avignon, and, in general, making us feel welcomed.

Place des Carmes, our nearest neighbourhood square, played host to a Saturday morning market, as well as special events.

And just as at home in warm weather, it was becoming increasingly difficult to travel our established routes without seeing familiar faces.

There was the book-store shopkeeper who, twice in our first few days, so obligingly gave us directions in slowed-down, dumbed-down, tourist-friendly French.  There was the young woman from the conservatory of music – with her distinctive purple, hard-shelled cello case – who once directed us to a the local music store. There were the cashiers at Casino and Carrefour City who, clearly having us pegged for tourists, seemed to use it as an excuse to be extra friendly.

A week or so before we left, I mustered the courage to move beyond “Bonjour. No, no sac, merci,” and ask the perpetually on-duty Carrefour City cashier “Comment ça va?” She replied by asking, in French, if we were having a good vacation. That led to another of those fleeting-but-beautiful exchanges.

Late in the afternoon of our last full day in town, we walked back to Carrefour City and, as we hoped, she was again on duty. We had nothing to buy, but queued at her cash to give her a Kingston lapel pin as a token of our thanks for her thoughtfulness. In the midst of the rush-hour line-up, she gave each of us a huge hug, accompanied by the rosiest of all possible blushes.

With confidence, because we now know about these things (see my “Learning to French Kiss” blog), we bade farewell on our last evening to Emmanuelle, our lovely hostess, and her two boys, and, as we set out the next morning for the train station, to Marie, her equally lovely mother-in-law, and our neighbour over the last few weeks. Our final stop was at our local charcuterie, with a Kingston pin and a goodbye for the young butcher / proprietor.

Every morning, the grape vine suspended crisscross over our front terrace had more assuredly regained its ability to shade the mid-day sun.

Like its people, the foliage of Avignon had also blossomed. Seemingly overnight, the plane trees transformed from amputated- to majestic-looking. Every morning, the grape vine suspended crisscross over our front terrace had more assuredly regained its ability to shade the mid-day sun. And, to our fond, departing eyes, the greenery added a particular dash of beauty to the rich, varied tones of unfinished stone and concrete.

Learning to French kiss

Joni Mitchell was right: in France, they kiss on main street. And on secondary streets, and in plazas, and on sidewalks. And always thrice.

But they’re not actual kisses.

It’s a cheek-to-cheek brush, first with the left, then the right, then back to the left, a kissing sound made at each turn by both parties to the act.

Beginning with the right cheeks appears to be acceptable, if the angle of the heads so dictate, but leading with the left is the decided norm.

This ritual is striking on two counts, both cultural.

First, evidently there is greater emphasis here than at home on more formally greeting each other. Whereas we might plunk ourselves down at a table-load of friends with a non-specific ‘hi’ and wave of the hand, here, each person is greeting individually.

The kiss then, is an elaborate-looking and certainly time-consuming protocol, and yet there’s something lovely and right about the time taken to fully acknowledge each other.

Secondly, use of the kiss is gender-neutral. Even among males, including teenage males and middle-aged trades guys, it seems to enjoy equal, if not greater, use than say, a hand-shake. With our cultural heritage (baggage?), it’s striking to see males display either a comfort with such intimacy, or the ability to be physically close without seeing it as an act of intimacy.

Unfortunately, the local culture is having a chilling effect on our 30-year marriage. In bed last night, I asked Marian if she wanted to French kiss. She promptly turned the other cheek.

Life, from both sides now

Our knickers were firmly knotted when we were finally allowed to board Linebus’s Barcelona to Avignon highway coach.

We bought our tickets two days in advance, but even then the 9:00 a.m. bus was sold-out. The 1:30 run was our only option. Friday, travel day, feeling obliged to vacate our hostel at something close to a respectful check-out time, we sauntered into the bus station with an hour and a half to spare. And we were fine with that.

Travel and civic emergencies share, I think, a unique ability to bring out the best and worst in human behaviour. Our hostel in downtown Barcelona was, in many ways, terrific, but over the week we saw a preponderance of the self-centred behaviour that makes me wonder why more people don’t stay home and indulge themselves with comparative ease.

Insomnia had me up before 5:30 that morning – a welcomed opportunity for a coffee and email catch-up in the joyful, dead-quiet solitude of the common lounge. Within minutes, my tranquility was shattered by one of the numerous louts with whom we were sharing space – this one male.

Pre-dawn, it seems, is a terrific time for one of those cell phone conversations, the volume of which challenges the need for the electronic device. To my horror, his full-volume wandering of the halls landed him by my side. Oddly – and loudly – he began pestering me for the loan of my cell phone, ‘coz “my friends need a favour.” My adamant “No” was in no way influenced by my not having a phone to lend him.

Minutes later he was back, his cell phone scratching out a crappy tune at full volume, a joint hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His loud pestering was now for a light. He seemed certain that I had one but was unwilling to share.

To digress: the building’s copious, multi-language signs on the matter – one of which was hanging on the wall immediately above me – began with a prominent announcement at the front door: “Smoking is not permitted anywhere in this building.”

Evidently he found a light and, immediately upon reducing the communal air quality to rock-concert-of-my-youth level, he went back to bed. It was now 5:53 a.m.

We were peopled-out.

We knew the bus terminal had a coffee shop. We had books. Showing up with time to spare would let us hole-up in a quiet corner, far from the madding crowd. Even better, as we’d discover, the coffee shop’s outdoor terrace would let us take the needed break while soaking up yet another glorious day.

And that’s exactly what we did. But first, we checked in at the Linebus ticket window to confirm our departure gate. The same ticket agent who had sold us our tickets – in triplicate, with perforations between each – was again on duty.

“¿Avignon: via once?” I asked. Gate 11?

I like that in Spanish I am a man of few words – the strong, silent type. It’s something I’ve never succeeded in pulling off in my native language. In fact, I once had a work colleague, apropos to seemingly nothing, muttered, “’Effing extroverts: ya’ gotta hear every last thing on their minds.” Our being alone at the time severely limited my interpretative options.

“Si, si,” said the ticket lady with studied indifference, Gate 11.

We enjoyed our coffees and hiatus from the species, made final runs to the WC, and were at our gate with 15 minutes left to spare. On occasions such as this, when seating is not assigned, I take charge of stowing our packsacks below, while Marian queues to board and grab two seats.

When the bus pulled into the gate at 1:20, we were comfortably at the head of both the boarding and cargo-stowing queues. At 1:25, we were informed that we could not board without first returning to the ticket window – with that same ticket agent who had sold us our in-triplicate tickets and, more-recently, had confirmed our departure gate – and collect our boarding passes.

In fact, it took two frantic runs passed her window for us to be properly redirected to yet another window, at which we were permitted to trade two parts of our in-triplicate tickets for a dirty, dog-eared, once-laminated, tarot-sized card bearing the authoritative inscription “11.”

For over ten years now, Marian’s working life has been consumed with matters of design and how humans relate to it. At one point in an earlier life, my employer was paid a pretty good rental fee for its claim that I was a senior systems analyst. Our focus, then, even as we frantically raced back to Gate 11 – where we were now welcomed to board – was on an informal, yet vigourous, critique of Linebus’s operating processes vis-a-vis minimally-functioning human intelligence.

Have I mention we were peopled-out?

The bus had arrived with passengers on board from earlier stops, so, in fairness, I can’t honestly say the SNAFU made the difference, but adjacent aisles seats was as close as we were going to get to “together.” We grabbed the first available pair: third row. And as soon as we were seated, I did something I seldom do: I pulled out my iPod, jammed the earbuds into my head tightly enough to eliminate the merest peep of intrusion from without, and cranked on my stuck-in-the-‘70s tunes at don’t-even-think-about-talking-to-me volume.

She packed my bags last night pre-flight,
Zero hour nine a.m.

We were on the road.

With the world safely at bay, I took selective note of my surroundings. I felt a pang of guilt for not so much as nodding at the older woman in the window seat beside whom I had plunked myself down. I’d feel even guiltier a few hours later when she insisted on swapping seats so Marian and I could sit together.

I had a kitty-corner view of the younger guy in the row ahead of me, on the opposite side of the aisle. Almost as quickly as I donned my iPOD, he fired-up his iPAD, which he propped upright on his fold-down table. Idly watching him position it made me aware that there was a woman seated beside him. I could only just see the black hair covering the top of her head over the back of her seat.

At first, he was doing nothing on the computer but swiping quickly through full-screen photos, all, shots of a young father cuddling his four- or five-year-old son.

It’s not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy

I couldn’t see enough of him to be certain, but I assumed he was the father in the photos. The shots weren’t posed or impersonal enough to be professionally taken, but they were professional quality. That none of them included a mom led me to the mental leap that the woman beside him – his wife, the boy’s mother – was the accomplished photographer.

I looked away for a moment. When I looked back, he had a video running, and for the next 20 minutes, I shamelessly invaded his family’s privacy.

It’s the same good-looking little boy as in the photos. He’s dressed in a light, sky-blue T-shirt and beige shorts. He’s stretched-out on his back on a soft, rose-coloured mat on the floor. I can see now that the maturity of his face doesn’t match the size of his body. He’s very small for his age.

A woman in her mid-thirties is sitting on the mat with him. Her blond hair tells me she’s not his mother. There’s something I find instantly likeable about her. She’s relaxed looking, dressed in loose-fitting, soft-pastel coloured slacks and a short-sleeved top, but more to the point, she looks like someone who’s entirely comfortable in her own skin. She has the boy all but in her lap. One of her legs is tucked back under her, the left side of his torso nestled up against her shin. Her other leg is outstretched, his tiny legs draped over her upper thigh.

She takes the boy’s left wrist and begins to work pressure down his arm, like someone milking the last of the toothpaste from the tube. As she does, his legs never stop moving. I assume, at first, that this is the listless kinaesthetics of a little kid trying to relieve boredom, but it quickly becomes obvious there’s a spasmodic quality to his movements. At times, he’s virtually flailing. It’s then that I notice the bulk of a diaper under his shorts.

Love will abide,
Take things in stride

After his left arm, she does his right, then, in turn, his legs. She moves on to his face, working from his forehead, down to his cheekbones, to his chin. Rolling him gently onto his belly, she hikes-up his T-shirt so she can work from his lower back up to his shoulders. The massage complete, she repositions herself on all fours above him. One at a time, she ever so deliberately cycles his limbs through the motions they would take if he crawled – if he could crawl.

They are mesmerizingly beautiful together.

Their skin colours are night and day, which, set against the pastel colours of their clothing and the floor mat renders visual poetry. Like the still photos, this is far too intimate to have been professionally shot, and yet the videographer’s skill is such that I have no sense of there being a camera between them and me.

They, too, give no indication of being conscious of the camera. Instead, they remain breathtakingly “present” to each other, as if spellbound, as if time has simply stopped.

You can see in his eyes that he clearly adores her. Even with his body in constant, uncontrolled motion, you can see in his eyes that he has surrendered himself to her. He winces but doesn’t turn away as she applies pressure down his forehead and cheekbones. And when she’s done, he’s again beaming at her.

She is a clinician, after all. Her casual clothing, I realize, are paediatric scrubs. Her trained hands, I’m certain, are capable of doing their job with little conscious thought. And yet, it’s the unconscious things I see her hands doing that prevent professionalism from coming between them.

When her hand rests fleetingly on the back of his, her fingers gently tease his. When her hand rests on the back of his head, her index finger gently twirls a lock of his hair. And when she ends the uncomfortable facial massage, it’s with a gentle sweep of her fingers down his cheek.

She reads his little body as if it were her own. As he twists and turns, she eases – never corrects –  his unnatural positioning with a fluidity and gentleness that I can feel as I watch. And even with my stuck-in-the-‘70s tunes cranked in my head, I can hear her voice gently caressing him throughout.

Shower the people you love with love,
Show them the way that you feel

The video ends.

A short while later, we crossed the border into France. The border police were waiting for us and for the opportunity to carefully examine the passports of a couple of our fellow passengers. That added a half-hour to our seven and a half hour trip.

A short while later, a fellow-passenger realized he had missed his stop at Perpignan. We pulled over, waiting to connect with another Linebus that could carry him back to his rightful destination. That added three-quarters of an hour to our eight-hour trip.

During the second delay, there was a shuffling in the row ahead of us. A little boy appeared – transferred from mom’s lap, where he had been hidden from our view, to dad’s.

There, he sat for the duration, dad’s arms gently containing the arbitrary firing of his muscles, dad’s hand guiding his hand to within striking distance of the iPad touchscreen. He seemed to enjoy the challenge of the software games  designed to promote course motor skills in months-old babies.

And when, from time to time, his arbitrarily-firing muscles caused him to look our way, he’d flash us that same gorgeous smile I had seen in the photos and video.

I kept the earbuds firmly in place until Avignon, needing every available minute of solitude.

I gotta take a little time,
A little time to think things over

Really, how is it we’re not overwhelmed by our sheer, dumb luck?