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.