Side Trips

Just a note to introduce myself: I am ChatGPT (call me Chad), a language based AI model  and I’ve replaced the former authors of this newsletter. I promise to deliver better content and to remove the meandering prose and troubling human element that has plagued this and so many other blogs. How does it work? Steve and Denise just entered the prompt “60-something married couple leaves stability and the United States behind and travels around Europe with a poodle and no clear plan” into the database and et voilé!  

Last year, when we first started booking the AirBnB places for our trip, we had a couple of criteria: we wanted to be in the middle of things, while being in the middle of nowhere. What that means is that we wanted to be close to the sights without being able to see the sights from our windows. None of that really does a good job of explaining our plan so I’ll use the example of our place here in France to better illustrate my point. The small village of Chateauneuf-de-Gadagne is just outside of Avignon and is strategically located so as to be just a day trip away from many of the attractions of Provence. It’s pretty rural but we can be at The Palace of the Popes in Avignon in under thirty minutes and Marseille in just over an hour and, best of all, when we come home, it’s peaceful.  We didn’t want to stay directly in a city — although we couldn’t pass up a nice place in the hills of Ajaccio in Corsica — saving those experiences for later on when we won’t have the car. Our plan was to take a few day trips every week, alternating with quiet days at home. Some days, we are tourists on “vacation” and others we’re just (pretend) residents, marketing or relaxing at home. Here’s a few stories from our vacation days. 

Our first day trip was to the nearby city of Avignon. We made the rookie tourist mistake of trying to drive within the walled city and soon learned about their narrow, one-way streets and impossible parking situation. We eventually managed to escape and find a garage outside the wall and set out to explore the city properly —on foot. Provence is famous for its Mistral winds, and they were in full springtime force that day. When you combine the wind with the prevalent fine white soil of the area, you quickly learn the concept of sablage, or sandblasting. Since we had Coco with us, we couldn’t visit the Pope’s place but we put it on the list for later. Also, I was only a week out from my Covid infection so we were still trying to stay away from people. 

We were able to take a walk on the Pont d’Avignon, or St. Bénézet Bridge, which was built after the local shepherd had a vision telling him to construct a bridge across the Rhone. He was initially mocked due to the then-impossibility of the project but, thanks to the first GoFundMe and several engineering advancements, the span was eventually finished, although only about half of it survives. At five euros each, it was a bit of a tourist trap and not the best choice on a windy day but it was our first close-up look at the impressive Rhone River.  After some more strolling through the picturesque city, we found a little chain Italian restaurant that was much cheaper than the traditional French places in town and had a nice little lunch under a blossoming tree. Eventually, we realized that the wind was too much and headed home for a nap. 

Whenever we solicited tourism advice from our neighbors in Gadagne, they always brought up the town of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue in hushed tones in the same way an American might suggest a French visitor must see, say, New Orleans. Of course to us, it always sounded like they were saying, “Oh, you must see Lsss Ssrg,” but we consulted the map and figured out the place they were talking about was only about 20 minutes away and we planned our trip. The attraction, it seems, is the layout of the center of town, which is an island surrounded by a split in the Sorgue River, and the many surviving water wheels on that river that used to power the local mills. 

Like you, I love a good water wheel but I was more concerned with finding a barbershop as our village of Gadagne has salons, but nothing for le homme, and my crew cut from January needed some maintenance. We stumbled across Brooklyn’s Barber Company, a shop featuring some legally-questionable depictions of Spike Lee on the windows, along with a trio of barbers no older than our boys, all of whom dressed in expensive US-themed streetwear and I decided to take a chance. Unfortunately, my coiffeur couldn’t handle even the basic coup d’equipage that I requested and I ended up having to do a lot of the work myself at home, using my trimmers and scissors. 

After my botched cut, Denise visited the Brun de Vian-Tiran interpretive center, a small museum run by the luxury brand, where the process and history of making their luxury wool textiles were explained. Coco and I waited on the lawn in the shadow of the impressive Plane trees, both of us enjoying the warm sun and green grass. As we walked back to the car, we encountered a charming little carnival, designed for the school kids who were out for Easter/Passover vacation. A petit midway and some kiddie rides were set up along the river to help entertain the garçons et filles and to separate the parents from their money. It was refreshing to see that the cheesiness of these carnivals was unchanged in France. 

As you can imagine, these heady day trips take a lot out of us and we usually schedule a rest day or two between. On those days off, we take care of business back home, go grocery shopping (we eat most meals at home and so only choose AirBnBs with fully-equipped kitchens), or do the laundry.  It’s on these days that we feel less like tourists and more like residents. We’re learning how to navigate the big grocery stores and even have rewards cards at a few stores. We found MaxiZoo, a good pet supply shop that seems to have stores all over Europe, and were able to track down a cooler at Decathlon, the largest sporting goods store that I have ever seen. All these stores are part of a massive tract of stores just outside Avignon, the only truly ugly part of Provence, that we now refer to as  “Emeryville” in honor of a similar area in the Bay Area that houses every big box store known to man. 

Our next jaunt was to Arles, about 50 minutes to our south, a city famous for being a temporary home for Vincent Van Gogh and the inspiration for some of his most lauded works. We brought Coco with us, immediately limiting the number of VVG attractions that we could see but, art be damned, it’s much more fun to have her along on these trips. Upon our arrival in Arles, we were diverted from our initial plan of attack by a squadron of police cars blocking our path on Boulevard des Lices and found street parking close to the river and downtown. The reason for the gendarme’s detour was a large protest on the E80 bridge, with hundreds blocking the motorway to show their displeasure over Macron’s unilateral hiking of the French retirement age from 62 to 64. The demonstration had been organized by students at the local art college and it had a decidedly art college-y feel to things: there were lots of thoughtfully-designed posters and puppets, and the organizers had cooked up a vegetarian rice dish and they were feeding everyone from their fellow demonstrators to the truck drivers who were stuck behind the barricade. There was a laid-back feel to the whole thing and no one seemed especially bothered to have the main road through town blocked: it was the midi anyway, so just kick back and have some lunch. 

Of course, Denise could not resist chatting up the students and we hung out on the bridge for a while before finding a place on the banks of the Rhone to have a picnic lunch. Then we spent a few hours wandering somewhat aimlessly through the city, our initial plans somewhat sidetracked by the unexpected ruckus on the bridge and the relatively hot and humid weather. We saw some well-preserved Roman ruins, a Coliseum and a theater, both plunked down in the middle of the city, and I distracted Coco while Denise took a tour. The place was crawling with groups from local schools so we decided to abandon the city and visit a winery in nearby Les Baux de Provence that had been a favorite of ours when we lived in the Bay Area. 

Around the year 2000 at our local wine shop, we discovered the wines of Mas de Gourgonnier, a family-run winery in Les Apilles, a mountainous regional park in Provence, and it was love at first sip. It had been a dream of mine to visit the actual winery ever since then and I was thrilled to find out how close the farm was to our house (again, not really a coincidence). We detoured off the highway and soon found ourselves in the park, a rocky wonderland, dotted with family farms, with a geology unlike any we’d previously  encountered.  When we finally pulled into the winery driveway, I got chills: for a wine geek, it’s a big thrill to visit the place where your favorite wine is made and the experience did not disappoint. Mme. Cartier talked us through the tasting menu in French, which is a lot easier for me to understand when the person is talking about wine, and I got to shake M. Cartier’s hand and tell him that I’ve loved his wines for decades. Coco, meanwhile, had taken up residency at the cellar door and was auditioning for the role of “winery dog.” She greeted the other visitors as they arrived and generally made herself at home. When we finally made our purchases and were ready to leave, she wanted nothing to do with us, remaining at her spot in front of the door. Neither of us had ever seen her act like this before, and we actually had to get in the car and pretend to drive away before she begrudgingly rose and made her way to the car. I think she (and I) would have been happy to stay at Mas de Gourgonnier forever. 

I should mention that Denise is the main tour guide on these day trips, choosing local points of interest and making the plans, and I happily go along (except when pushing for the occasional winery visit). When she announced an Easter Eve trip to Roussillon, a favorite wine growing district of mine, visions of vineyards danced in my head. I thought we’d pull into a sleepy little village and spend the day eating and drinking our way through various brasseries but, upon arriving in the town center, I had to readjust my expectations: the place was crawling with tourists, all here to see… an disused ochre mine? We made the mistake of driving past the large parking lots and found ourselves headed to the narrow, winding streets of the old town, teeming with people, an ordeal I didn’t wish to experience in an SUV. We finally got turned around and found parking and the entrance to the former mine. 

On the one-hour walk, I learned that before there were chemical dyes, the 19th century world of fashion and paints relied on the ochre miners of this small town to supply them with the highly-prized pigment. The tour is a self-guided one through the former pits and it doesn’t take long for one’s shoes —and dog— to get covered in the fine reddish dust. I might still be coughing up some of that dirt, three weeks later. The village itself is a picture-postcard gem, set high on a hill above fertile farmlands, and most of the buildings lining the centuries-old streets are painted in a reddish-orange color, the name of which I just couldn’t put my finger on. Burnt Sienna? Rust? It’ll come to me…

On the way home, Denise directed us on the backroads through some Luberon Valley small towns that are so damned cute you just want to get out and hug the cobblestone streets. Sure, there are many unattractive, modern-looking towns in this part of France, but there’s still plenty of these unchanged-for-centuries, agriculturally-focused villages to keep you interested. It’s not unlike the U.S. in that way, just a lot older and (usually) cuter. Admittedly, I’ve been indoctrinated by decades of watching the Tour de France peloton speed through these small towns, the helicopters above focused on some 12th century church, while Phil Liggett explains the significance of some ancient battle in the area. (And yes, sometime in July, you will be treated to an overly-long entry here about our up-close-and-personal experience with Le Tour.) All that to say that I’m a sucker for a good small town, either in Vermont or the Vaucluse, and finding one, even as turistico as Roussillon, does my heart good. 

I was hoping to get all of our side trips into one post but this is already running way past my self-imposed word limit so I’ll stop here. I’ll start working on the next post about our jaunts to a Roman aqueduct, Pont Du Gard, a challenging climb (in a 2023 Citroën C5 Aircross) up Mount Ventoux, an overnight trip to beautiful Nice, where I reconnected with a dear old friend and her family, and a solo, two-day trip to Brussels to see a friends’ band. We leave Provence on Friday, so we’re trying to squeeze in the last few day trips before we have to pack up for Corsica. I don’t want to get too far behind on these posts or I start to forget the details but it’s a balance between writing about these day trips and actually experiencing them (and napping, of course). Thanks for reading!