Photos from Avignon...

A few things:

One of the pictures of me was taken from halfway up the walkways along the walls of the Palais des Papes. The other was taken in a fantastic little tea salon in Avignon. It was just like me; an English style tea-service and décor served in a French style (with miniature home-made almond "financiers"), and middle-eastern music playing softly overhead.

The first bridge is the Pont d'Avignon. The second picture of a bridge, the large many arched one, is called "Pont du Gard." It is very old and Roman, but that's all I can tell you. It has it's own theme-park of sorts, not entirely unlike Niagara falls, but cleaner and more chic. Well, plus français, quoi.

The olive tree is from 908 AD, and has its very own plaque saying so. Isn't it beautiful? Though it is located along the footpath leading to the Pont du Gard, it is not originally from that spot--it was transplanted from Spain in 1985. Notice how many of the little leaves were captured as mere green blurs by my 7 megapixel digital camera. This should indicate one thing to you: Mistral.

All the other photos are probably self-explanatory, but if not, let me know : )

Paris retrospective

Yesterday I went to see a fantastic exhibit of Wily Ronis’ Paris photographs. It was all the better because, despite his 95 years of age at the time, he was very active in preparing the show. And so both his genius and his personality were imparted on the organization of the works.

At the exhibit there were two elderly Parisian women, each a head shorter than I am. As the photos were arranged chronologically, and as I had entered the exhibit just moments after them, I got to know the women a little as I followed them through the exhibit, photograph by photograph (I also got the know the tops of their heads quite well, which is a detail I will come back to). They stood before each picture for several minutes, faces craned upwards, tracing over the trees and the angles of buildings with their arthritic fingers. For these women, the process of viewing each picture was the same: identify the location in Paris at which the photograph was taken, then try to associate some personal memory with the location. In one instance, for example, there was a picture of a worker strike in the 1930’s. One of the women said to the other, “I remember I met you there that day, the day of the strike. You had your blue vest on!”
-Oh! The blue vest! Yes…oh, I loved that vest. Do you remember the buttons?
“Oh they were incomparable! I wanted a vest just like yours!”
-No one had a vest like that (shakes head slowly, lips pursed pridefully). That’s why it was so special (silence, punctuated by the other woman’s nodding).
Then, arm in arm, they hobbled on to the next picture to play their game of memories.

I was seeing the exhibit along with them, viewing them as much as I was viewing Ronis’ photographs. I was very touched by the notion of two Parisian ladies, presumably in their eighties (at least), going on an excursion together to a photography exhibit; I was touched by the way they helped support each other physically as they walked, and touched by how they supported each other by recalling or clarifying memories (“no, no, your hair was long then, and you had that sweetheart who lived in the 15th, remember?”). It was both beautiful and sweet to see the photographs through my eyes and theirs, but watching them also made me sad.

Their hair was teased and sprayed into what looked like helmets, with a roll of hair turning upward, running down the base of their necks from ear to ear. As I stared at the tops of their heads and listened to them reminisce, it occurred to me that their hairstyle might in fact be a helmet of sorts—-maybe it’s a psychological protection against the relentless coming of years. Maybe when they look in the mirror and see the hairstyle they had in the 60’s, when they were 30 or 40 years old, they feel only the weight of the first few decades of life on their backs, and not all 80 or 90 years of it…

Another thing that struck me about the exhibit was something that Ronis said about why it was that he ever took photographs, and why he took so many of people, often very ordinary, in Paris (and not of more grandiose things such as monuments or buildings):

“Bien sûr que j’aime l’architecture de Paris—c’est ma ville, elle est belle. Mais c’est les gens qui m’intéressent…ce qui m’intéressait c’était de voir mes frères et mes soeurs parisiens et comment ils vivaient…je retrouvais des gens avec qui j’aurais pu vivre, avec qui j’aurais pu converser, qui auraient pu être mes amis, mes voisins; des gens qui m’inspiraient de la sympathie.”

(Of course I adore the architecture of Paris—it’s my city. It’s beautiful. But it’s the people who interest me…what interested me was to see my Parisian brothers and sisters and how they lived…I found people with whom I could have lived, with whom I could have had conversations, who could have been my friends, neighbors; people who aroused sympathy in me)

I believe this to be true. It is for me, in any event. I take pictures of people window shopping, or men laughing in the park, and I note the kind of the light that falls on their faces. I think I do this in order to preserve and to appropriate moments of other people’s lives in which I crave some kind of participation. Maybe I want to feel like the mother and daughter gazing into the windows of stores and to feel the joy that makes the men in the park laugh. All of this is to say that it occurred to me yesterday that my taking of pictures, and my scribbling of notes, is about living moments of other people’s lives, and joining my experience with theirs. It makes me feel larger—-more than "one," anyway.

The women in the picture at the top are not the women I was speaking about--they are two other women I found sitting in a park, chatting about the birds.

sur le pont d'avignon

You all might have noticed that my brain is wired in such a way that one word, phrase or object will instantly call up a song. For instance, when I hear the words “Last night” I either think to myself, or, more often than not, sing, “Last night I watched him sleeping, once more the nightmare came…” from Miss Saigon. Or, even more ridiculously, when I hear “Marseille,” I think “Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé…”
[Four years ago, when I was spending the weekend with some French friends in Normandy, I was in the kitchen (which was open to the living room) while my friend’s mother talked to her cousin about his recent move to Marseille in the living room. As I was pouring myself a glass of water, I thoughtlessly began to sing the Marseillaise. And though I had been singing quietly, conversation in the next room ceased. Raucous laughter followed a brief pause (for the sake of clarity, I was not involved in the raucous laughter).
“Oh!!!!!!I (gasp for air between bouts of intensive giggling) knew (HAHAHAHAHA) you (ha….ha…HAHAHA) looooooooved France, but I (gasp….ha. ha. HAHAHA) didn’t realize you loved it (heh) that much!!!!!!! Our little American who hums the Marseillaise in the kitchen!”]

That being said, you all might imagine my first reaction to Stéphane’s invitation to Avignon….

Yes. That’s right: “Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse, on y danse…” This time, though, Stéphane and I laughed together, which was decidedly more pleasant. Anyway, you can only imagine my delight at actually having found myself “sur” the pont d’avignon. It was lovely and exciting for me; the above picture was taken on the bridge. I was too timid to actually pretend to be dancing in circles for my photo, though the thought did cross my mind. But then, just when I was contemplating being that silly, I saw a Chinese girl about my age striking a sort of jazzercise pose for her picture. It was at that point that I thought perhaps I would not dance on the bridge. My apologies to all disappointed parties.

Other than the famous "Pont," I visited the Pope’s Palace (or…“papal” palace?), strolled through the adorable but cold and empty streets, learned why people talk so much about “The Mistral” and otherwise had a wonderful time. First of all, knowing nothing about Catholicism and knowing almost nothing about old European history, I was not aware that the seat of the Catholic Church was in Avignon for over a hundred years, beginning the 1300’s. And so, much to my surprise, there is a fairly ornate, medieval Vatican of sorts in the southern part of France. Also surprising (and funny, especially) is that on the medieval frescoes in the papal chambers are naked women bathing. Maybe they had different definitions of papal chastity back then…? Unfortunately, no photos were allowed inside the palace, so you will all have to come see for yourselves what I am talking about.

Now. The Mistral: before I encountered it in real life, my reaction to the mention of the allegedly cold and bitter wind that blows through the south of France on occasion was the following: I am from Michigan—don’t you think I know what glacial winds are? Apparently, I did not know. No no no. I definitely did not know. The much talked about Mistral turns out to be a wind that approximates those nasty Canadian polar winds that sometime knock around Michigan in the dead of winter, but the Mistral is colder, stronger and sneakier. The Mistral swirls and slaps, whistles and squeals across the corners and roofs of houses, and you can hear the gales coming from afar from the groaning and snapping of the trees. You’ll say “oh, but we have that in Michigan.” Yes, we do, but the Mistral is worse. Soooooo much worse.

Needless to say, there are few tourists in Avignon this time of year. But despite the Mistral, the narrow, cobble-stoned streets; the sunny, sycamore-lined squares; and the not exceedingly expensive gourmet restaurants with exceedingly fresh, inventive fare, were all so charming that I can’t wait for the opportunity to go back one day for the festival in the summer time.

The Rainbow Connection

I can remember not only the exact age I was on the occasions when I’ve seen rainbows in the United States, but also where I was when I saw them. For example, the most perfect one I have yet to see in my life was in the following Midwestern conditions: on a highway between Ann Arbor and Grosse Ile, I stopped with Maria, my mom and Anna in a Meijer parking lot to observe a perfect double rainbow. The land there is so flat, and the trees had been cleared away in such great number, that the rainbow carried on along its double arcs unobstructed from one end to the other. Furthermore, the massive expanse of sky and parking lot was all so gray that it rendered the colors of the rainbow much more vivid. I think when I am 90 years old I will still carry with me the vision of this rainbow over the Meijer parking lot.

The point is, though, I can remember with this much specificity the details of my American rainbow viewing because there have been so few of occasions. However, each time I am in France, I see rainbows, and many. The last three times have been from inside a car. First it is raining heavily then the sun comes beaming through from another direction. I frantically crane my head this way and that and clamor around the car to see if there are rainbows forming opposite the sun. And each time, there are.

“ooh! A rainbow! Look!” (that’s me)

“Haven’t you ever seen a rainbow before?” (standard response of the French people in whose company I have found myself each time I’ve seen a rainbow here).

“Yes, but not very many.” (click click—I take a picture)

“Oh, I see…well, we get them all the time. They’re pretty common, actually.”

This is a near exact transcription of the exchange between me and Stéphane on our way to Avignon this weekend. For nearly the entire duration of the 6 hour drive, there was simultaneous sun and rain...6 hours driving toward into rainbows...And therefore I took many pictures : )

Does anyone know why, from a meteorological perspective, there are more rainbows in France than in Michigan? I'd be very happy to know.

The Paris Season

I had the loveliest day today; I met Shana for lunch at a café bakery called “Bread and Roses”—it was more modern than your average Parisian café, but perfect in every detail. It’s one block from the Luxembourg Gardens; from the tables, looking toward the street, you can see the leaves of the magnolia trees growing over the top of the wrought iron garden gates. The café occupies the corner space of an elegant Haussmanian building, but the bakery owners have replaced the old windows with nearly floor to ceiling glass. The windows were impeccably clean, and the row of five small, square oak tables were lined up against it, one chair facing in toward the bakery case and the orderly wall of preserves and oils, the other chair facing the street. Because the windows were so large, immaculate and free of any beams or panes, I had the wonderful sensation of still being a part of the first spring day, a part of the quiet elegance of the street corner, though I was inside. The young women servers, black-clad, were extremely professional, polite and smiling. The café is non-smoking, serves organic juices and illy coffee. It is bright and quiet inside. Instead of being the kind of silence that stifles, it was meditative and delicious. So was the food.

The Cordon Bleu has taught me so much about culinary perfectionism, and has in that sense spoiled me. Where I would have been satisfied, even impressed, with most meals and pastries in Paris before I began my classes here, I am no longer. When I am served in a café, or I pass by the windows of bakeries and pastry shops, I hear the voices of the Cordon Bleu chefs in my head; “There’s too much sauce…and it’s too thick…and poured on so indelicately!…that choux pastry of that éclair is too brown—they overworked the dough…oh!…look how those strawberries are sliced! So thick! So uneven!”

That being said, I could find not a single fault with the presentation or the taste of my lunch; every delicate tendril of roquette, mâche and radicchio was fresh and crisp, were torn into small, even-sized morsels, and were all evenly coated with a thin layer of the most irreproachable lemon vinaigrette I’ve ever had. Delicious. Pictures will follow, though I don’t know when, because we took them with Shana’s camera. I will post them when she gives them to me.

Afterwards, once Shana was in class, I went strolling through the city for hours, just because I could. I stood on bridges and in the middle of streets and took pictures of monuments, and the sky, and was in such a meditative trance following my lovely lunch that I didn’t even mind looking so much like a tourist.

In the afternoon, in the 7th, I passed a man in a wheelchair. His pant legs hung down from the seat of the chair, both empty and pinned closed at the cuffs. Across his lap he had a cardboard box full of flowers. He was selling nosegays of violets for 2 euros. So I bought one from him. “You’ve made me very happy,” he said. “No, you’ve made me very happy,” I said. And I strolled down the street, a nosegay of violets in my hand, cheerfully imagining that I was a Victorian lady, in Paris for the season : )