French Kissing in Avignon and Other Tales of a Week in Provence by dln
Nov 8th, 2004, 05:49 PM
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French Kissing in Avignon and Other Tales of a Week in Provence by dln
Sorry for the seemingly salacious title; it didn't even happen 'til day 4, so you'll have to wait! 
My husband, Rob, and I left Paris for Aix-en-Provence on the TGV. Second class tickets, second floor of the train: pure delight. Our seats had a stationary table between them and I was able to write in my journal, in between drinking up the glorious French countryside. We'd packed a light lunch of cheeses and a baguette and a good sized bunch of green grapes, much sweeter than we get at home. We settled in for a speedy and smooth trip down to the south of France.
Aix's train station is a modern, open, airy structure at the complete opposite end of design to the Gare de Lyon which we'd left. Up the stairs, over the tracks on the bridge, down the elevator and out the door to pick up our car. The heat of Provence hit me like a brick! I didn't like it. I'd just gotten used to the cool of Paris and it was clear that I'd have to acclimate myself all over again. It made me scowl a little. I guess I don't switch gears as easily as I'd thought.
We picked up our car, a snazzy dark blue diesel fuel Toyota Corolla that was really much larger than what we needed (upgrade). That was until we started packing our luggage into the back. Our bags took up the entire space! I was mortified at everything I'd brought but glad for an uncomplaining husband hefty enough to lift it with ease. The car had a faint cigarette smell that reminded me of my teenage son who says he doesn't smoke in my car but does (and who says he doesn't smoke, but does). Maybe this car had a teenager too?
We drove out of the train station lot and got ourselves on the D9 heading for the town of Apt. We missed our turn off for the D543 because we were debating the meaning of "next," as in next exit. Said next exit passed us by as we debated its merits. When you see that word on a road sign, does it mean the very <i>next</i> exit, or are they referring to the next one after the most <i>immediate</i> one, the one you miss because you're talking? (Not to worry; we have much the same debate at home, too, in regard to the days of the week. When it's Wednesday, for example, and someone starts talking about next Friday, do they mean the Friday of the present week, or are they thinking of the one in the following week? We've long since given up on the finer points and attach the dates to our days when we want to know exactly when we're supposed to meet each other for what event.)
My husband, Rob, and I left Paris for Aix-en-Provence on the TGV. Second class tickets, second floor of the train: pure delight. Our seats had a stationary table between them and I was able to write in my journal, in between drinking up the glorious French countryside. We'd packed a light lunch of cheeses and a baguette and a good sized bunch of green grapes, much sweeter than we get at home. We settled in for a speedy and smooth trip down to the south of France.
Aix's train station is a modern, open, airy structure at the complete opposite end of design to the Gare de Lyon which we'd left. Up the stairs, over the tracks on the bridge, down the elevator and out the door to pick up our car. The heat of Provence hit me like a brick! I didn't like it. I'd just gotten used to the cool of Paris and it was clear that I'd have to acclimate myself all over again. It made me scowl a little. I guess I don't switch gears as easily as I'd thought.
We picked up our car, a snazzy dark blue diesel fuel Toyota Corolla that was really much larger than what we needed (upgrade). That was until we started packing our luggage into the back. Our bags took up the entire space! I was mortified at everything I'd brought but glad for an uncomplaining husband hefty enough to lift it with ease. The car had a faint cigarette smell that reminded me of my teenage son who says he doesn't smoke in my car but does (and who says he doesn't smoke, but does). Maybe this car had a teenager too?
We drove out of the train station lot and got ourselves on the D9 heading for the town of Apt. We missed our turn off for the D543 because we were debating the meaning of "next," as in next exit. Said next exit passed us by as we debated its merits. When you see that word on a road sign, does it mean the very <i>next</i> exit, or are they referring to the next one after the most <i>immediate</i> one, the one you miss because you're talking? (Not to worry; we have much the same debate at home, too, in regard to the days of the week. When it's Wednesday, for example, and someone starts talking about next Friday, do they mean the Friday of the present week, or are they thinking of the one in the following week? We've long since given up on the finer points and attach the dates to our days when we want to know exactly when we're supposed to meet each other for what event.)
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:10 PM
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You <i>definitely</i> have me hooked. Now that you have advised us that you went to France with your hubby, I can't wait to see the installment for Day #4 to learn if the French kissing is with him or someone else.
I have the same problem with interpreting the meaning of "next." Looking forward to the other installments!
I have the same problem with interpreting the meaning of "next." Looking forward to the other installments!
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:11 PM
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dln, now that is a catchy title!!! Don't forget to file the balance of your report!!
And arguing about i.e. "next Friday".
That has always driven me crazy. Has caused hundreds, thousands(?) of arguments. Today is Monday. When I am refering to Friday at the end of this week I say "Friday". When I mean the Friday of next week I say "next Friday". Makes sense to me. But not to the majority of people I know. Oh sigh. So indeed it is better to use the actual date.
Look forward to the rest of your report. Take care.
And arguing about i.e. "next Friday".
That has always driven me crazy. Has caused hundreds, thousands(?) of arguments. Today is Monday. When I am refering to Friday at the end of this week I say "Friday". When I mean the Friday of next week I say "next Friday". Makes sense to me. But not to the majority of people I know. Oh sigh. So indeed it is better to use the actual date.
Look forward to the rest of your report. Take care.
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:13 PM
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So we missed our exit. It's not so easy to get back on the road in the right directtion afer you've left the highway. It took us a good 15 minutes to right ourselves. I wish I could explain in plain terms how it was that we got so confused, so as to save you all the trouble in getting discombobulated in France, but I can't! Suffice it to say that my engineer husband who has both logic and an internal homing device that would give any migrating bird pause, was momentarily cast off course. This did not endear Provence to me, especially when we were off track in a very un-lovely part of Provence populated by billboards, nondescript office parks, and other ugly light industry. For the second time in an hour, I scowled.
We carried on north in mildly congested countryside through Rognes onto Loumarin where we were tripped up by the roundabout. Now, we're both used to English roundabouts, and the town north of us at home has adopted them with great abandon as well. We know roundabouts. NOT French roundabouts, though. Man o man. They threw us for a loop (and made us feel loopy by the time we returned to Paris!)
You can enter a roundabout from the south side with the intent of carrying on north. That's what the map will show you, that the road goes through. That's not always what the reality of it is. Your northern road might veer off a few degrees, just enough to make you question if it's the same road. Sad but true. And then there's no route number to help you! It's all done by the direction you're going in. Fine, you might say; Rob and Deirdre are going to Apt. What's so difficult about that? It's north! Well, look at the map. Before you get to Apt you pass by Bonnieux so your Apt road sign might say "Bonnieux." Or maybe it won't. Maybe it will say "Baoux" which is also on the road to Apt, though in an entirely different direction.
We carried on north in mildly congested countryside through Rognes onto Loumarin where we were tripped up by the roundabout. Now, we're both used to English roundabouts, and the town north of us at home has adopted them with great abandon as well. We know roundabouts. NOT French roundabouts, though. Man o man. They threw us for a loop (and made us feel loopy by the time we returned to Paris!)
You can enter a roundabout from the south side with the intent of carrying on north. That's what the map will show you, that the road goes through. That's not always what the reality of it is. Your northern road might veer off a few degrees, just enough to make you question if it's the same road. Sad but true. And then there's no route number to help you! It's all done by the direction you're going in. Fine, you might say; Rob and Deirdre are going to Apt. What's so difficult about that? It's north! Well, look at the map. Before you get to Apt you pass by Bonnieux so your Apt road sign might say "Bonnieux." Or maybe it won't. Maybe it will say "Baoux" which is also on the road to Apt, though in an entirely different direction.
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:17 PM
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...and I thought we were the only ones who experience the "next" controversy. Isn't any kiss in Avignon a French kiss by definition? Guess I'll just have to wait for the Day 4 installment!
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:24 PM
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re: "next". If it's Wed. and I want to refer to the Friday coming up the same week I say "this coming Friday" and next Friday would be the following week. However, I always back it up with the date to make sure I am understood. So.......how long do we have to wait for the "next" installment?
"Veddy" intriguing title I must say..hmmmm...not til day 4 you say.
"Veddy" intriguing title I must say..hmmmm...not til day 4 you say.
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:38 PM
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I was nearly in tears! Tears of frustration at going around in circles in Provence, fears of an entire week of going around in circles, when I could have been in Paris where I understand the directions. (You've surmised, I'm sure, that I'm a lousy navigator.) It wasn't going to well by the time we finally, eventually, reached the town of Apt. It was not made better by the simplistic directions we'd pulled off the website of Kevin Widrow's charming chambre d'hote, our destination. We'd made plans to stop in and say hello to Kevin who we knew from his contributions to both Slowtalk and this forum. I offer apologies to Kevin--the website really is magnificent, well done there, but the directions make no allowances for first-time drivers in France!
Worth it, though, the agony to get there. Kevin and his beautiful wife Elizabeth have a wonderful chambre d'hote set in the midst of vineyards, with the mountains all around. We were glad we drove up to say "hello" before setting off to our own B&B in Beaucaire. Kevin chatted with us, filling us in on all the good places to visit, and served us a terrific cup of coffee and gave us a tour of the place. It was a pleasant little visit that cheered us both up about the prospects of driving a week in Provence.
It was a rather uneventful trip west towards Beaucaire because we opted out of the scenic route in favor of getting there quickly. A highway is a highway even if it's surrounded by mountains. I was dreaming of quaint little back roads lined with plane trees, and this wasn't it.
We had reservations for a room at a former wine estate, Domaine des Clos. I'd chosen it because it allowed us to hold our reservations by credit card--didn't have to bother with wire transfers or checks. Its location was also in a good place for everything we wanted to see. And it looked sleek and elegant on the website.
It wasn't. I didn't like it. Rob didn't like it. The tears and scowls that were threatening all day nearly burst forth. So disappointing! My heart sank; this wasn't the introduction to the famous Provencal style I'd been looking forward to for our first visit. It wasn't sleek and elegant. It was rustic and shabby-chic. Or more accurately, shabby masquerading as chic. How shall I put it politely, what we thought when we saw baseboards that needed a carpenter, flower beds that needed a gardener, and walls that needed a painter? I'll tell you what Rob said: "Wow. You could sink a 100 grand into this place before it looked great." True true. Our room was decorated in the style of student poverty days--thin Indian madras fabric augmenting the French boutis, dried flowers, and accessories that spoke of an import-export store. In all fairness, I suppose someone else could have taken a look and pronounced it all very trendy and hip, but to us it appeared low-budget and twenty years removed from what appealed to us. Tears, tears, again, helped only by the wine we'd brought from Paris, served in shabby-chic chipped glasses.
Worth it, though, the agony to get there. Kevin and his beautiful wife Elizabeth have a wonderful chambre d'hote set in the midst of vineyards, with the mountains all around. We were glad we drove up to say "hello" before setting off to our own B&B in Beaucaire. Kevin chatted with us, filling us in on all the good places to visit, and served us a terrific cup of coffee and gave us a tour of the place. It was a pleasant little visit that cheered us both up about the prospects of driving a week in Provence.
It was a rather uneventful trip west towards Beaucaire because we opted out of the scenic route in favor of getting there quickly. A highway is a highway even if it's surrounded by mountains. I was dreaming of quaint little back roads lined with plane trees, and this wasn't it.
We had reservations for a room at a former wine estate, Domaine des Clos. I'd chosen it because it allowed us to hold our reservations by credit card--didn't have to bother with wire transfers or checks. Its location was also in a good place for everything we wanted to see. And it looked sleek and elegant on the website.
It wasn't. I didn't like it. Rob didn't like it. The tears and scowls that were threatening all day nearly burst forth. So disappointing! My heart sank; this wasn't the introduction to the famous Provencal style I'd been looking forward to for our first visit. It wasn't sleek and elegant. It was rustic and shabby-chic. Or more accurately, shabby masquerading as chic. How shall I put it politely, what we thought when we saw baseboards that needed a carpenter, flower beds that needed a gardener, and walls that needed a painter? I'll tell you what Rob said: "Wow. You could sink a 100 grand into this place before it looked great." True true. Our room was decorated in the style of student poverty days--thin Indian madras fabric augmenting the French boutis, dried flowers, and accessories that spoke of an import-export store. In all fairness, I suppose someone else could have taken a look and pronounced it all very trendy and hip, but to us it appeared low-budget and twenty years removed from what appealed to us. Tears, tears, again, helped only by the wine we'd brought from Paris, served in shabby-chic chipped glasses.
Nov 8th, 2004, 06:46 PM
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Good grief!! What one can learn on Fodors.
So I say this coming Friday and all is clear!!! How simple can it get? DUH.
Now, I guess than when someone says to me next Friday I can ask "do you mean this coming Friday?", and that will clear up what they mean.
Oh my, and all these years I never knew LOL. Thank you dear friends from the bottom of my heart
So I say this coming Friday and all is clear!!! How simple can it get? DUH.
Now, I guess than when someone says to me next Friday I can ask "do you mean this coming Friday?", and that will clear up what they mean.
Oh my, and all these years I never knew LOL. Thank you dear friends from the bottom of my heart
Nov 8th, 2004, 07:21 PM
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Thanks for all the interest (what a kissy bunch we all are!). Ah, the roundabouts. They <i>are</i> beautiful! Each one is planted differently and we never saw one that was unkempt. But they're also maddening. As Sue4 said, you keep going round and round until...you're loopy. As I mentioned, they're all done by direction. So you pretty well have to memorize every town on the way to the town you want to see, and at every subsequent roundabout, the town on the way changes, as you pass through one on the way to another. Confused? I know there absolutely must be a rhyme and a reason to it, but we were't always able to decifer the logic. So we went around and around.
And the other thing: the choices! I don't know if subliminally you enter the roundabout and all of a sudden your mind slips into the old game show mentality. You know which one I mean: the one with the prize behind the door. Which door has what you want? Door number one? number two? What exit out of the roundabout is the one that leads to your final destination? Which road leads to the ultimate prize? My poor husband would enter the roundabout sure of where we were going, only to want to go to a different "door" than the one we'd originally chosen. As I said, it was maddening (though scenic).
And the other thing: the choices! I don't know if subliminally you enter the roundabout and all of a sudden your mind slips into the old game show mentality. You know which one I mean: the one with the prize behind the door. Which door has what you want? Door number one? number two? What exit out of the roundabout is the one that leads to your final destination? Which road leads to the ultimate prize? My poor husband would enter the roundabout sure of where we were going, only to want to go to a different "door" than the one we'd originally chosen. As I said, it was maddening (though scenic).
Nov 8th, 2004, 07:35 PM
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No Scarlett, more misery ahead. 
The proprietor of Domaine des Clos was cordial if not a little business-like and efficent around the edges. She recommended a restaurant in Beaucaire and was kind enough to call reservations in for us. We got lost finding our way into town and miracle of miracles, my husband actually stopped at the gas station to ask for directions without me saying a word. <i>That is almost unheard of in our house!</i> A madman in an ancient Deux Chevaux volunteered to show us the way and led us a merry chase on two wheels all the way. It was like something out of the Keystone Cops and you should have seen the grin on that man's face when he got us to the restaurant. He looked very satisfied with himself and we were all three of us hooting with laughter.
We didn't like the restaurant any more than we liked our lodgings (oh surprise, surprise). It was really lovely inside, but there was no printed menu for us to look at, only a menu written on a chalkboard in non-Palmer method handwriting. This irritated me. I'm all for charm, but not when I'm starving and I have to figure out whether I'm looking at an "r" or an "n." Bread was brought to our table with a little ramekin of tapenade beside it. My eyes lit up! Tapenade! I love that stuff! We're friends with a French chef from Nice and he's taught me how to whip up a mean batch of tapenade. I thought to myself "This will set the day to rights." I am a firm believer of a way to anyone's heart is through their stomach. I was prepared to dig into this tapenade and forgive the roundabouts in Provence, forgive the cheap fabric pillows in the B&B and, and,...it tasted awful. It was old with a stale refrigerator taste that comes from not covering food firmly with saran wrap. Awful stuff that they were probably saving for unsuspecting tourists like us. Big tears rolled down my cheeks plunking into my wine glass. I was completely miserable. It wasn't just the tapenade, it was the tapenade after a long disappointing day, and I was tired and hungry and completely miserable, sure that the Provence of my dreams was a figment of my imagination and we were stuck here for a week.
The proprietor of Domaine des Clos was cordial if not a little business-like and efficent around the edges. She recommended a restaurant in Beaucaire and was kind enough to call reservations in for us. We got lost finding our way into town and miracle of miracles, my husband actually stopped at the gas station to ask for directions without me saying a word. <i>That is almost unheard of in our house!</i> A madman in an ancient Deux Chevaux volunteered to show us the way and led us a merry chase on two wheels all the way. It was like something out of the Keystone Cops and you should have seen the grin on that man's face when he got us to the restaurant. He looked very satisfied with himself and we were all three of us hooting with laughter.
We didn't like the restaurant any more than we liked our lodgings (oh surprise, surprise). It was really lovely inside, but there was no printed menu for us to look at, only a menu written on a chalkboard in non-Palmer method handwriting. This irritated me. I'm all for charm, but not when I'm starving and I have to figure out whether I'm looking at an "r" or an "n." Bread was brought to our table with a little ramekin of tapenade beside it. My eyes lit up! Tapenade! I love that stuff! We're friends with a French chef from Nice and he's taught me how to whip up a mean batch of tapenade. I thought to myself "This will set the day to rights." I am a firm believer of a way to anyone's heart is through their stomach. I was prepared to dig into this tapenade and forgive the roundabouts in Provence, forgive the cheap fabric pillows in the B&B and, and,...it tasted awful. It was old with a stale refrigerator taste that comes from not covering food firmly with saran wrap. Awful stuff that they were probably saving for unsuspecting tourists like us. Big tears rolled down my cheeks plunking into my wine glass. I was completely miserable. It wasn't just the tapenade, it was the tapenade after a long disappointing day, and I was tired and hungry and completely miserable, sure that the Provence of my dreams was a figment of my imagination and we were stuck here for a week.
