searching for Orange

In the middle of the night, I decided to move on to another village. By morning, I changed my mind.

It's not that I woke up loving Orange and given the weather prognosis for the next several days, it would be tough to expect a total turnaround. Too, the B&B is a bit unusual: in having my breakfasts and dinners taken up to my rooms up on the top floor, I feel a bit like exiled royalty: never to see a soul, but living comfortably up there in the garret. 

And so long as I'm in my "let's find fault with everything" mode, I should add that if there is a croissant that is not excellent in all of France -- it is the one from the Orange bakery that madame brought up for my morning meal.






But please know how trivial all of this is! The room is warm and quiet, the shower is hot and strong. The baguette is crispy, the leftover clementines from last night's supper -- divine.

More importantly, I'm thrilled to be on a trip! I just really love all minutes that make up a day of travel. And when I return to the farmette and think back to my trips, the ones that bring forth the greatest smile are the ones where things hadn't followed a predictable and glorious path. I've recalled fondly my last trip to Europe with my daughter -- that's the December trip where raging blizzards kept striking central Europe and we were stranded first in Paris, then in Berlin, then in Paris again. Flights were cancelled for days and days and it was sheer luck that got us back home for the holidays. Brilliant memories!

Now, too, I love the juxtaposition -- my insanely grand day in Arles followed by a kaput afternoon in Orange. When things are too smooth, you lapse into a dream like euphoria and one day runs into the next and there are no distinguishing features. Orange gave me the gift of providing a distinguishing feature.


Okay, time to go out. I understand that there will be showers today (and rain and wind tomorrow!) so I pack an umbrella. But I am enthused about searching out the orange colors in this place (as a euphemism for something that rises above my first impressions here, and too just plain old orange colors).

And predictably I find them.

It happens to be the big market day of the week. The crowds that were missing yesterday fill the snaking streets. Let me put up just a few photos. Yay for orange! Or, rather, let's give the town credit -- yay for Orange!



(Orange also happens to be the name of France's largest cellphone service)




(a loyal resident)





(most of his fish have a touch of orange)





(I rest my case)












After the market I make my way to the greatest treasure Orange has to offer -- the theater from the period of the Roman Empire (and it is also the best preserved Roman theater in western Europe). It being December, I have to wake up the ticket agent. Admission is expensive. I ask if I am eligible for the discount given to the "unemployed." She answers -- no. I go in. For most of my visit, I have the entire place to myself.






At the time of antiquity, the theater could house audiences of more than 9000. Today it is, of course (nearly) empty and you might think this to be a touch sad -- such a vast expanse, so devoid of humanity. And I would agree. On the other hand, there is a thread of sadness that connects us to our past and so what better way to feel the weight of history than to lose yourself in the vast emptiness of this theater.






Afterwards,  I climb the summit (if you can call it that) just behind -- it's Orange's highest point and it offers some good views, though really not great ones on this day where the hills and mountains to the east are entirely shrouded in clouds. So let's look to the west instead.






Back to town and more people photos for you. I have to admit that I remind myself just a little of the character in an excellent documentary I watched on the flight over -- Finding Vivian Maier. I can't help feeling a link to the subject of the film: Ms. Maier was a nanny (as was I once) and she was committed to photographing everything and everyone in her daily outings (I'm not so robust in my picture taking, but I do always carry my camera). She was also a little deranged (and I hope I am not as off balance as she appeared), but she was brilliant and bold (I am actually neither) and I try to remember her boldness as I want so much to snap it all in my rambling through town.













(no orange, but oh so sweet!)













My walk takes me to one last sight that I want to see here -- the Arc de Triomphe, Orange style. It dates back to the 1st century and I think it must look especially brilliant in the typical Provencal sunshine, but we have none today so you get the full effect of the gray skies by admiring it in murky brown.






And now it's time for lunch. Nothing big, mind you -- I do have my evening meal back in the attic. I miss having some secret small restaurants, recommended to me by innkeepers. My Orange innkeepers keep to themselves and the folder they leave in the room has listings of teas I can purchase from them and wines I can find in local wineries and children's activities in the area, but nothing in terms of eating out. So I go by the looks, the popularity index, and the menus posted, and that actually works well enough. I find La Cantina -- a sort of cave like eatery that has good prices and a good list of specials and I'm neither the first nor last diner, but instead I am one of many and that's a good thing.

I order an artichoke salad and berries with chantilly cream...






...and both are quite good, but I especially enjoy watching others around me. They're all French, of course, because even the most diehard off-season travelers (the Japanese) know not to come to Orange in December, because it probably is a lot lovelier in spring or summer months (I'm giving it the benefit of the doubt here). The French, as you know, have this bizarre (or at least very extreme) adoration of food and what's wonderful is that they do not hide it! They're proud of it! Their food arrives, the conversations cease. I watch this at a table of twelve -- 8 women and 4 men and the silence that falls over the group is profound. One person mumbles "c'est tres bon" (it is very good), but I am sure no one hears her.

To me, the idea that you should flaunt what you love and not what others expect you to love is very appealing and so I watch and smile and one person at another table thinks I am in that same enraptured state of food adoration because she smiles back and whispers -- good, no? I nod my head and bow down a little to show proper deference to what I have just consumed.

And then I go home. It started raining during the lunch hour.


 


I search out madame the innkeeper and tell her that I will be leaving tomorrow. I explain why (let's just say the weather) and she is more or less agreeable. I go upstairs and take out my computer and search out the one small area in France that does not have rain in the next two days and then I go to the train station and buy my tickets for it.

Where to? Well now, you could check the weather maps of France if you're that curious. Or, just check back on Ocean tomorrow!



(the last orange of Orange)

Arles, one last time

Ah, how the French have signed onto politeness! Enter a store, a restaurant, a gallery with a bonjour, leave with at least a two, preferably a three or four part soliloquy: Merci beaucoup, au revoir, a bientot, bonne journee (thank you, good bye, see you soon, have a good day). When these are absent, it's jarring. Visitors from countries without such norms stand out. Honestly, the French must know that there isn't an intended slight and yet you can see the shock, the subtle shake of the head when someone comes and goes without acknowledging the people in the room.

Perhaps all the expectations of politeness would wear on someone born to a different protocol. The French -- they're used to it and it comes without hesitation. We teach our kids "thank you," they teach their kids "bonjour" (and au revoir, a bientot, merci, bonne journee).  Personally, I would be very happy with so many greetings and salutations. After a while, I'd think anything less is barbaric! And visiting here is quite calming to anyone whose sensibilities are frazzled with all that troubles the world. It's as if this gentility, this politeness allows us to at least aspire to a nobler way of life.


This morning, I look out my window and find that the clouds have returned.





I linger at breakfast. The proprietor, Nathalie (I think she is my age, but French women always look so great that it's hard to tell; another thing that they learn in the womb) tells me about her fascinating professional life -- she is a theater actress and for the past 30 years, she has been in charge of a school for acting in Rouen. Wait, Rouen? That's in the north.  I ask why she and Vincent are here, in Arles. Ah, it's her husband chasing that sunshine! After living in wet Normandy, the south must be to the French what Florida is to Minnesotans.

She talks, too about their travels. They've been up and down Europe, parts of Asia, some Africa, huge swaths of South America and yet they have no great desire to visit the States. I am curious about this. Most French people say the opposite, singing the virtues of New York and especially California and yes, sometimes Texas. She shrugs her shoulders. Maybe someday. But she doesn't sound convincing.

When I still considered myself more Polish than American, I never expected people to claim a desire to see my homeland. If and when I admitted to being Polish, I would wait to see if the recipient of this information would slightly recoil. Coming from Poland didn't buy you status. There is the issue of the communist past, but, too, the perception -- not incorrect! -- that most Poles do not have money to spend abroad. We were considered cheap (rather than frugal). Things have changed somewhat, as a few Poles now have gobs of money and I'm sure they rival the nouveau rich and cash heavy Chinese visitors in their spending habits. But a far greater number travels on a shoestring budget. Perhaps this is a sign of the fact that Poles will travel abroad, even if they can't really afford it (as opposed to Americans, who often wont travel abroad, even if they can amply afford it).

So now that I have made the leap to being American (more than Polish), I assumed, like most of us have, that there are interesting things to see in this vast country of ours and it didn't strike me until today that perhaps whatever it is that we have to show others may appear to some to be uninviting.





After breakfast, I pack my bags (remember? I'm in Arles for only two nights) and leave them in the hallway. Nathalie offers me an umbrella for the day, but I politely decline. If I do not take it, then it will not rain.

I want to do one more sweeping walk before heading out for my 2pm train. It's the best way to really consider the town and the Arlesians who live here.

So, over the river!






It's a brooding kind of day. Cloudy, with gusts of wind. I'm not cold, but I have all my layers on. I walk at a brisk pace.



(blue)





(red)





(so many colors!)




(so many!)





(long scarves, too)





(even on a cat)



And I go further still -- toward the outdoor market. Nathalie told me it's not so interesting today, but actually it feels big and bold and full of life's necessities.



(orange)





(oranges)


Arles, like most towns and cities in France, has a significant immigrant population. I don't sense that there is a great divide here, but I don't really know the politics of it in this particular town. (As opposed to the next place I'll be visiting, where the politics are really in your face.)





At around noon, a gentle rain starts to come down. I could use some warm food before my trip. I stop at the Jardin des Artes -- a Provencal/Italian bistro -- select a homemade pasta with truffle cream sauce (yes, my eating habits have changed here!) and dig in.

And then it's time to hurry out. Nathalie gives me the name and number of her Parisian sister. Call her! You can meet up and practice your French! (Nathalie herself was superb, because she corrected me each time I made a word usage mistake. Most would politely ignore that, leading me to repeat mistakes that I'm unaware of again and again.) Maybe. I'm pretty shy about imposing on strangers, but this family is pretty special.

The walk to the station is a scant half hour. It's along the river, but I take no photos. I've said my goodbyes to Arles. I'm focused now on Orange.


If you don't know the geography of the region of Provence, Orange is a bit more inland, just north of Avignon. My Arles innkeepers were a bit surprised that I should choose it as my next stop. It's sort of like Arles! -- they protested. Ah, but my innkeepers are not aware of my peculiar selection criteria! I point out, too, that Orange may be a good base for exploring northern Provence.

Now, Orange has a stellar tourist reputation. It's another Roman city, it's located just steps away from the Chateauneuf-du-Pape vineyards, it's a wee bit smaller than Arles, but it has a grand history. So, a real winner, no?

Well, for the French, Orange has had another kind of notoriety in recent decades: in the 1990s, it was the first city to elect a mayor from the Front National ("FN") -- the nationalist, socially conservative political party in France. You know -- Le Pen's party, with an anti-immigration, law and order platform that many on the outside regard as racist, anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic. In recent years, the FN has moved closer to the center-right and in any case, Orange's current mayor resigned from the FN and aligned himself with another group -- a far right, conservative one that still does take a stand against what it calls the "islamisation of France,"  but it hasn't quite the venom of the FN.

I step off the train trying not to think about politics. I have visited many countries (let alone cities), where political transformations have moved a people into an anti-democratic, sometimes anti-secular governance. So, ignore politics. I am ready to be charmed. But as I walk toward my hotel, I realize that I don't really like what I see that much. It's that mysterious thing called the vibe -- it's like the router that's just not connecting to your internal operating system. Orange and I are just not communicating smoothly.

I come to my B&B: L'Apropos. Oh dear. I see a big for sale sign on the building. I'm staying at a place where the innkeepers, after buying and renovating it just five years ago, want out. There are big photos of the inside posted outside. But what's missing is anyone to answer the locked door. I'm in a town about which I am at best feeling neutral and the B&B looks deserted and it's windy and cold outside.

Well, at least I don't have a lot of luggage to weigh me down. I continue toward the center hoping I will have a change of heart.

I do not. There's more commerce here than in Arles, but there are fewer people. Maybe it's a more seasonal town, because there are very many cafes, but most of them are closed.

I find the tourist office. I collect some information for possible excursions, but in my head I'm calculating my losses if I just tally ho and leave.

No, I cannot. I really got a good deal on my overnight -- and it includes breakfast and a home cooked dinner. I have to stick this one out. If the hotel people ever return.

The Tourist Office woman tries to call them. No answer. I decide to hang out at a cafe and give them some time to return. This is when I find most places to be closed and the ones that are open have no WiFi (I rely on WiFi to make calls as I do not travel with a cell phone).

I come back to the Tourist Office. Ah, madame! The owners called me back! They just didn't hear the doorbell!

I retrace my steps to the B&B.

In fact, the owners are quite good people. They have given me a suite of rooms that is so large that I could be traveling with four kids and we would not be in each others hair. They will bring my meals up to my rooms. The WiFi is faster than fast. The view is onto their gardens -- pretty and peaceful.

So I ask them -- why are you selling it?
Five years is enough. We want to try something else.
Another B&B?
He shrugs his shoulders. We want to go to Brazil.

Well okay. So be it. Maybe I will be their last guest (to my commenter who noticed the last guest theme in my life -- the trend continues!). Maybe their search for a new life is also tied to the fact that Orange just hasn't the vibe for them.

Madame brings up my meal. It's a chambre d'hotes arrangement, so you get whatever the family is eating -- tonight it's cauliflower soup, veal shank with veggies, pumpkin cake, clementines.

I settle in for my four days here. Not everything is great in the best of places, not everything is awful in the places that don't exactly match your vibe.

Arles!

Lake a late nineteenth century canvas, let this post first give you the impression. Then, if you want, you can read the text and search for the detail.

Arles on December 2, 2014 is radiant! Surely this is the light so admired by Van Gogh when he first came here in 1888. It's a glorious day for me: brilliant in tone, color, sunlight, taste and depth. May I never forget it. May all the small pieces found here, grow into an even more beautiful collage long after I am gone.

I must remind you, lest you're tempted to take the next flight/train over and find yourself in Arles tomorrow (after reading my glowing introduction): this is an old town. It struck me in studying your comments, that someone may not be so in love with putting up with all that being old involves: not all the shutters and stones are polished, painted or refreshed. The streets are narrow. There are more cracks than smooth surfaces. Gauguin, arriving on Van Gogh's enraptured invitation, promptly admitted to hating it here. (A real slap to Vincent.) And, too,  for us, if we venture out during the hours when the town sleeps (midday for lunch, and Mondays because it's Monday, and early in the evening because no French person worth her salt is going to shop past the supper hour), I suppose it can appear forlorn.

Not for me: I'm with Van Gogh. Fact is, living now as I do in the land of the new, I miss the old. I miss the character of irregular structures that share walls imperfectly. Of streets and blocks that don't quite replicate the squares of a chocolate bar. I miss bleak doorways that, when opened, reveal beauty so deep that it overwhelms you. Arles is like that. On a cloudy pouty day it may seem tired. Yes, going back over yesterday's photos, I can see that. But even without today's beautiful light, I am sure I would have been mesmerized. Perhaps not so floored as to sob deep tears of joy (a I almost did, retreating over the river this afternoon), but I still would have loved its tattered exterior for all that it holds back inside. Like a famous someone or other once said -- they don't make 'em like this anymore!


Breakfast. I'm the only guest at Le Patio d'Arles and in fact, after my visit, they're closing for the rest of the year. My hosts, Vincent and Nathalie, join me.





A croissant with her home made jam of apples (from their second home in Normandy) rhubarb and Calvados, yogurt, fresh fruits, juice, and superb coffee.

We discuss whether running a three room B&B is like tending three hens. (I say yes, Vincent protests: he and Nathalie can walk away for a day, a month. And, too, they get a positive kick from interesting guests. I don't admit that actually, I get a positive kick out of our three hens. Of course, Oreo is like a difficult guest. But he's improved!)


Then begins my plunge into the heart and spirit of Arles.

Out the door...



(bundled against a morning chill)


Across the river...



(clouds receding)


Into the yellows and blues of Arles...






I want to start with the Fondation de Van Gogh (once a hospital, where, in fact, Van Gogh stayed, now a center of art) and on my way there, I pass Monsieur Cavico (that's a best guess from seeing his name on his paintings), working on the old stones of a floor. His own canvases are stacked against the garage walls.





We chat. He is my flesh and blood artist of today -- I run into him (coincidentally) several times and during each encounter, I learn something new about art and Arles. (I also learn about his son, a chef in New York and about a bunch of other details of his life, but what really stayed with me is his pride in work.)


The books say the Fondation opens at 10 in the winter. They're wrong. It's 11.


I go on to my next I-have-to-see-this item: the Eglise St-Trophime.

I pass bakeries...






And a shop with wool, where the store owner sells some of her creations...



(what soon to be grandma can resist this handmade piece for a winter baby?)


I come to St. Trophime. The outside portal is the marvel, but I didn't see it and neither will you: it's behind scaffolding right now. Inside -- a beautiful Romanesque interior.






Outside, a stunning 12th century bell tower, against a very blue sky!






But it's the cloisters to the side that really take your breath away (and especially on this day of deep blue skies and streaming sunlight). The added bonus for me -- total quiet. There are no visitors on a midweek morning in December.






And another bonus -- one that causes me to actually stick up for the people who come here in months other than November and December: Provence is known for the Santon sculpture -- small figurines engaged in traditional tasks, formed and painted by local sculptors. Because this art form began with molding pieces for Nativity scenes, the Santon exhibition at the cloisters abides by the tradition of displaying them only at Christmas time. Even though only a very small number these days have anything to do with Christmas. I protest this, but hey, maybe for the locals, it's reason to schedule a visit here in months when there is very little else that would be a draw. A bit like Christmas markets in northern Europe -- a way to get people hyped about going there during the worst months of the year.

My favorite Santons from the displays:



(note: they're tiny!)


And yes, you can purchase very simple ones for your collection and no, I'm not in a buying mode. I would only purchase one if it was of a woman with a cheeper and if it doesn't cost much. Oh! Both conditions satisfied!






Outside again, I walk along the pedestrian routes and I do some people watching.



(he sings beautiful old melodies)





(Provencal conversations always involve hands; note: pinks and orange!)





(what Ed would never wear: a Provencal hat and a scarf)


Then I return to the Fondation. Van Gogh wanted to create in Arles a community of like minded artists. After a long back and forth, Gauguin finally came to paint with him. No others followed, possibly because Van Gogh was by then so terribly burdened by his mental illness. Gauguin himself left immediately after Vincent severed his own ear.

But they say that Vincent Van Gogh's dream was realized, albeit more than a century later, by the creation of the Fondation, which invites select artist to display their paintings. Right now two are featured -- Yan Pei-Ming and Bertrand Lavier. I watch the film clip as both talk about preparing for the exhibition. I am mesmerized by the interviews! Imagine: you're an artist. You're told you've been selected. How do you cope?!

Yan Pei-Ming began by painting Van Gogh's self-portrait (a painting using a painting as a model) to guide him in the endeavor.






He rejects it for the display. Not the statement he wants to make. Next, he uses the same brush strokes, but creates his own impression of how Vincent may have once looked. (These are on display.)






Lavier, the second artist, approached things differently: for him, Van Gogh's brush strokes create the art. And Lavier uses them not only on a canvas. Here's something you might like:






You're thinking -- a painting of a keyboard... But in fact, it's a whole piano, completely painted over with Van Gogh styled strokes!



(Ocean author in the mirror)


And here's a Lavier canvas: can you see the thick, wide strokes?






And here's a correction to yesterday's post: there is, right now, an actual painting by Van Gogh in Arles: it's his self-portrait, painted from a mirror (on loan from Amsterdam). It's presented in a room where Lavier added brush strokes on a mirror that faces Van Gogh's painting. I can't photograph the entirety, but here's Van Gogh's self-portrait:






The Fondation Van Gogh has a rooftop terrace. I spend a few minutes here, letting it all sink in. The colors below, made tame by winter light are sublime.











I leave the Fondation so moved, so overwhelmed by the human story behind art, that it's one of those "Nina cries yet again" moments. I am not ashamed.

I eat lunch at Le 16: a tiny place of Provencal food, recommended by my hosts. And I order a full, 3 course (fixed price) lunch, to make up for yesterday and knowing that I wont want to head out for dinner again tonight.

I start with the traditional Arles sausage: it consists of minced beef and pork, herbes de Provence and bacon macerated in the local wine. It's then dry-cured for 6 months et voila!



(in sunshine!)


Next, a sea bream baked in olive oil, sitting on a bed of leaks and pea pods and carrots, with a side of Camargue red rice.






And finally, warm baked apple slices, with just a dab of vanilla bean ice cream.







After, I walk then through the Place du Forum for the n-th time and now I finally get an angle of the yellow building that I like. What yellow building, you ask? It's the house where Van Gogh lived. Here's a snippet of his famous painting:






Here's the yellow house today:





I can take in no more now. I have purchased a baguette, this time with chevre, arugula and tomato for the evening, just in case. I retreat to the B&B, take a short daytime nap (who wouldn't after all the fresh air and, too, fresh and honest food) and begin to reconstruct the day here, on Ocean.

I'll leave you with something Monsieur Cavico said to me when I told him I had retired to write:
La vie, cette une belle histoire! (life is one beautiful story)