Why We Travel

     . . . . From a piece in the NY Times by one writer visiting a place another writer made famous within the small circles of the sorts of people who read such books: 

... it occurs to me that what Salter is actually writing about is the way we walk through our memories like a stranger in a forgotten town. 

“The myriad past, it enters us and disappears,” he writes. “Except that within it, somewhere, like diamonds, exist the fragments that refuse to be consumed. Sifting through … one discovers the true design.”

Which design helps one makes some, if, sometimes, only little, sense of the present, as well as the past of all those long-ago other times that came before us. 

I have felt this way myriad times in the places that are old and brimming with the past. I don't know about Salter, but for me though, they have to be places about which I bring a great deal of knowledge already acquired about the place's past. But however this takes possession of the visitor, these are the memories of the place that do not fade. Personal memory overlain on historical memory. History embedded in geography. Essential for historians or anyone who assumes to write of past times, places and people.

A place where I had the experience described above, the Cisalpine (South-east French and North-west Italian coasts) Provençal  French village perché of le Bar-sur-loup, in a range of Alps above Nice.

The photos in the NY Times piece would have appeared quite different to me if I had not spent so many hours walking in le Bar-sur-loup and taking my own photos.

I've had those fizzing electric sensations in, among other places, New England, Europe, the upper and lower South, the Caribbean, England, France, and often in various sections of New York City.  This allows me the freedom to write of these places.

Nîmes: Out of Chronological Order -- Spanish Southern France

     . . . .  Nîmes is the Spanish side of southern Gaul -- as Nice is the Italian side of southern Gaul and Avignon is in the middle and mostly medieval. Going through the photos again today, and I can't resist posting right now the photos that tell us so much about southern, Roman Gaul.  

Nîmes was where our travels concluded, as far as sight-seeing was concerned.  It was from Nîmes we took the train back to Cannes, where I picked us from the station and drove us back to hers and David's place in Bar-sur-loup.  The next morning David drove us to the Nice airport, and we flew home. 

That I can't resist putting up some of the Nîmes photos doesn't mean we loved it more than Avignon, or even Bar-sur-loup (though we did love all three of these places in a way that we didn't love Italy's Ventimiglia, and certainly did not in any way love Cannes! what a vulgar, ugly place filled with vulgar ugly people).

See where Nîmes is, on the far right side of the map. Provence is on the other side of that boundary.

Nîmes is on the other side of the boundary of Provence proper, i.e. just barely inside what used to be Aquitaine, the land of Queen Eleanor -- Provençal Occitan / Languedoc-Roussillon (Lang -- tongue / language of doc / Occitan -- this is in the beginning of el V's Cuba and Its Music). This is the very edge, yes, but I am / was in the land of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine! You cannot imagine what this does / did to me

Recall how important Iberia was to the history of Rome.  Hannibal began his campaign against Rome from Carthegenian Iberia.  Pompey the Magnus won additional military glory in Iberia. The young Octavian, still only the young relative of ruling Julius Caesar, stationed with the Roman cavalry there.  The later Emperor Hadrian was born in Iberia, of an Hispano-Roman family.

Thus one is not surprised to see bulls and bullfighting still revered in Nîmes. 

Bulls are iconic throughout the Mediterranean coastal regions, it seems, from the most ancient days of Crete's bull dancers, Zeus's rape of Europa in the shape of a bull, bulls given sacrifices, which latter was continuously practiced in the western Roman empire at least, even deep into Rome's Christian eras.  We ate lunch in a restaurant called la Grande Bourse located by the Roman arena.  The heads of the most brave bulls of each feria are mounted high on the walls around the huge dining area, which one knows is packed during the fighting of the bulls.

If one doesn't wish to believe that a love for the bull fight could exist in such a civilized, haute bourgeois spot as the south of France, so colonized by animal rights loving British, see the above image. This handsome specimen of bovine strength and beauty was lovingly stenciled all through the city.  It wasn't a part of the city's advertising for Ferias de Nîmes 2018, but a project of presumably an individual art student? from the University of Nîmes? Whom, presumably, marched in the May 1st parade of unions and students protesting the neo con policies of Macron and the drive to privatize so many of France's public agencies and institutions.

Bar-Sur-Loup 3

     . . . . Bar-sur-loup seen from Gourdon.

Bar-Sur-Loup 2

     . . . .  The first evening D&I drove us up and up and even further up, to the village perché of Gourdon, to do sunset on the patio of the cathedral with appertifs.  I had the local bitter orange liqueur, for which the region, and Bar-sur-loup particularly is famed.

Evening is beginning to fill the valley below.

Approach to the village perché Gourdon from the car park.  This village is extremely popular with tourists.
There were already many present, including from tour buses, despite the season having barely begun.
But then, here we were too!  And are we not tourists?  Did we not fret when other tourists got in the way of the photo shot we wished to make?

Looking over the parapet of the road (walking only) to Gourdon's gates.

Looking behind us on the road to Gourdon's gates, see the terracing?  These agricultural, horticultural terraces go back at least to the days of the Romans.

Getting close to Gourdon's entry gates.

A view from the road across and into the valley, where the farmers and serfs worked for the local lord / strong man who held the village perché Gourdon to protect them from invaders, pirates, and neighboring lords / strong men.

The gates.

Sheep mowing the grounds, with lambs, seen from over the road's stone barriers.

Pictures of Bar-Sur-Loup

      . . . .  Seen during the first hours arriving in Bar-sur-loup, after the hour-long drive from the airport in Nice.

This is the view behind D & I's home in Bar-sur-loup.

This is the kitchen door of D & I's house.

The lavender petals are from the wisteria above, that have fallen on these lovely orange flowers..
The wisteria bower above the kitchen door was a mass of honey bees from first light until dusk.
The bees were so busy they never noticed us coming in and out.

Robbed By Gypsies - Saved By A White Knight From Finland

     . . . . Two gypsy girls stole my wallet out of my bag as we began wondering the streets of Nice, after finding the Museum of Ancient Musical Instruments was not open. I will not dignify them with "Roma."

I will say right now that the wallet and its complete contents, including passport, were recovered, with the exception of the $65 US. 

But at that moment I didn't know this would happen. It was one awful hell of  three hours, after our lovely lunch in Nice's sunshine, across from the Market. We immediately drove back from Nice to Bar-sur-loup, where our computers were, to try and deal with the stolen passport -- me calling the embassy in Paris, then started the call to the US consulate in Marseille to begin the process for emergency passport, el V had just started the skype process with the bank  -- and then came a message into el V's e-mail, saying my wallet had been found with passport and all inside. Three more e-mails followed, one from the airline.  We turned around immediately to drive back to Nice -- the drive is about 35 miles, over twisting, winding, steep mountain roads, no short one, especially at rush hour. Thank lordessa we have French friends who speak French. And that there are Finnish tourists in Nice, with good eyesight, and deep concern about doing the right thing.

I knew those two gypsies were following me, I felt them going into my handbag, and I pulled it away, four times. The fourth time I felt bumped, I looked inside and yes, the wallet was gone. If I'd known they were gypsies I'd have been more proactive. I couldn't figure what they were -- I noticed them immediately because they didn't look like anybody else in Central Nice -- and their make-up, especially their lipstick, was awful, so bright and thick and just wrong.

But I didn't think "gypsies." I thought 'refugees,'  so I was trying to be more charitable than suspicious.  A whole other story.

Instruction posters warning against gypsy pickpockets.

And as I learned, gypsies are a huge problem all over France currently, and especially here.

Gods what a collection of people, half of whom didn't know each other or me, came together to save el V's and my vacation. Indeed, the last thing, M,  the Finnish gentleman said to me when returning the wallet-- and he doesn't speak English or French very well, but well enough! "Now you can enjoy the rest of your holiday." Finns see holidays as a very serious, even sacred, business.

The business in selling stolen passports is beyond enormous. Perhaps, my yelling and pointing, and I taking off after them and confronting them scared them to death, so they had just gotten the cash at that point and threw the rest away?

The thieves truly were clumsy -- so must be in training. I could try and take comfort in the near certainty their handler - brother - father - cousin - uncle has now beaten them badly. That was something else about them -- they looked sub-par intelligence. But on the other hand they were good enough to finger through the three little bags in my handbag -- they were good enough to determine by by touch the three top bags were not wallets or cell phones. The wallet was wrapped in a sweater on the flat bottom of the bag with these other things and a small folder of Nice tourist activities on top of the sweater -- and the bag was closed. But I did feel them each of the four times they went into it. That's what's so weird, and why I felt so despairing and filled with shame and guilt.  Not to mention that I'd had this happen to me just back in October, 2015, though here, not abroad.  Even now when I think of this, I get nearly sick with guilt and sheer fear, knowing so well from that other experience what it means to have your documents stolen.  How could I be in the position to allow this to happen AGAIN?

El V, I and D were so kind, supportive, non-judgmental and calm. It was find out first if indeed you did not by chance leave it at home, then call passport office, American Express and the bank.

Ventimiglia, on Italy's Ligurian coast.  One goes there via an astounding scenic route of Alps and the Mediterranean coastal highway, though both French and Italian tunnels.

If the e-mails via the White Knight Finn hadn't come in just at that moment -- the next morning I'd have been on the road to Marseilles instead of drinking café au lait  in prep for going across the Italian border to the ancient market town of Ventimiglia.

M, the Finnish gentleman who spied my discarded wallet, found a woman who spoke English, who went through the wallet, found the Delta - Air France boarding pass, called them, who gave her and the Finn our e-mails (my computer wasn't on), after trying to call our phones, which don't work there. Delta also called and e-mailed. I called Delta back, who then gave her the Finn's number, and I called him. 

He also said, in his so-called non-existent English, "The French girl, who speaks English, is very good." 

White Knight M replied to my e-mail of thanks, giving me the details of his side of the story.  He found it with the zippers open, on a window ledge of the street where it happened. The woman who speaks English and he tried even finding me on social media.  When the woman opened my passport though, my boarding pass fell out of it. So she had the brilliant idea of calling the airline. The woman who answered their call found us in the system, our e-mail and our phone numbers.*  Too bad Verizon won't support an international phone program for our makes of phones . . . .

M is such a lovely fellow -- strongly built, white hair and beard, balding, but distinguished with a serious expression on his already tanned face. He's the grandfather everyone would want.  He wouldn't take any finder's fee or the bottle of champagne I and D donated to the thank you fund.  He saved my vacation of a lifetime of dreams.  How did I get so lucky?

Yesterday, the first thing el V and I did was send a notification to the airline in praise and thanks of the employee who was so quick-witted and helpful.

-----------------------

* El V had suggested I throw away the boarding pass at some point when he noticed I still had it.  Why I didn't discard it, I cannot recall, due to jet lag and exhaustion.  Maybe I thought it would make a good book mark?  Boarding passes have served that function for me often -- not that there was any time for reading on this trip.  But!  if I had thrown it away -- I shudder.

Provence! The Perfect Dream

     . . . . Monday, May 1, we were in  Nîmes, sitting in a Roman arena, built approximately 70 A.D. 

Statue of the matador behind the Roman arena in  Nîmes;  as well as music concerts and other spectacles, corridas and bullfights are staged there today.  A bullfight festival was scheduled for this week.  This is another indication that we were on the "Spanish" side of the Roman Mediterranean coast in  Nîmes, whereas Nice and Avignon are on the Roman / Italian side.

The festival of the Roman Games had just concluded, a day late, because the day of the biggest events got rained out, so had to be postponed to the following day. The temperature was chilly, the sky over the yellow sands was overcast and threatening the rain that did follow us all the way from Marseilles to Cannes, to Bar-sur-loup and hung on Tuesday morning. At the Nice airport for departure I wore a sweater under my leather jacket. 

Arrived in NYC, May 2, the temperature was 90 degrees. We sweated all way in from JFK. 

I'm trashed. This despite sleeping occasionally and even being able to stretch out, relatively speaking on the endless flight home. As the season barely begun, the flight from Nice was not at all full, so it was a lot more comfortable, thank goodness. It was the same on the flight to Nice.  Nevertheless, as it is -- what a wreck I am.  And jetlagged.

But -- what a wonderful. beautiful, perfect, dream vacation.

This vacation made many of my life-long dreams came true. This isn't an exaggeration. Ever since I was a very small child, I poured over illustrations, photographs, reproductions of paintings in encyclopedias, history text books, my piano practice score books. I passionately wanted to see these places with ruins from antiquity, gothic architecture, narrow, winding streets that had cascades of flowers and the slender pencils of poplar in the landscaped hillsides behind, the 'Roman' tiled rooftops -- and yes, even 18th century neo-classical forms such as the Jardin de la Fontaine in Nîmes. Then, to have that garden and the ruines of the Temple of "Diana"located  together -- which was all the better for the adult historian that I have become, knowing that this ruin was part of one of the many temples dedicated to Emperor Augustus, erected throughout the empire to remind the provinces that Rome was in charge. To have been given this opportunity to make an historical journey that covered them all in our limited time -- this is priceless. 

And the beauty, the food -- this journey was a life-time blessing. Nothing I did to earn it or deserve it -- it was just given me by D and I and el V. I am most grateful. 

Due to our hosts for the beginning and the conclusion of the trip, this was so much about the best ways of growing and preparing food, maintaining the food supply, sustainable horticulture and agriculture. 

Temple Saint-Martial. Building began in the mid 1350's, concluded in 1402.

Further, concerning the region in the medieval era: there was the Temple Saint Martial, just about directly across from our Avignon hotel, the Bristol, which had been the site of one of the earliest colleges. Its great subject of the 'new' scholarship was the formation of phytothérapie. The students sat outside, their classes held in the sections between the gothic church's buttresses, looking into the surrounding grounds. The grounds were gardens of therapeutic and medicinal plants and herbs. To this day, across from this church there is the Pharmacie, the first floor of which is a splendor of natural and homeopathic botanic treatments. Not to mention the many tours and conferences offered throughout the region for food and wine experiences (and I'm sure the entire of France) that include serious history and study of the past and current therapeutic and medicinal approach to what we eat and drink. I suppose this could be called holistic, though I didn't see that term used -- but then, I don't know French. All of this by way of seeing what D, I and their community are doing in Bar-sur-loup, and particularly I's approach to meals and dishes --she's a professional chef -- as part of a long, historically French continuum of eating and drinking. 

And now, when I first sat down this AM,  long before 7 AM our time, it was still quite warm. This afternoon NYC got up to 93°. When we left for Provence it was still definitely winter here, late late winter, perhaps, but winter. Climate change -- France, and all of the people like D and I and their community of their beautiful village perché (where last summer's wildfires's smoke and flames could be seen from behind the Alp that bounds their backyard), who are working on methods to keep people eating, have a great deal to do!

I filled 70 pages in my moleskine notebook.  I took many, many photos. Most of them are still on my memory card. When I'm a little less tired, I will download them to my hard drive and gloat over my memories.