Side Trips, Part Deux

Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? Denise and I were flitting around the Provençal countryside, soaking up all the natural beauty, culture, and food that we could squeeze into our brief month here. In Part One, we visited Avignon, L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, Arles, Les Baux de Provence, and Roussillon, as well as several less interesting spots of which we spared you the details — unless you want a post about our trip to Auchon, the megastore in the next town, like a Walmart but much, much bigger.  I was planning on being a more regular correspondent but between our day trips, dog walks, physical therapy, and preparing meals, even our days off are surprisingly full, giving me less time to write than expected. We are in Corsica now and I’m anxious to get you caught up on that part of the journey but here’s a not-very-short wrap up of our last two weeks in Chateauneuf. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the Romans were early occupiers of Provence and they left lots of evidence of their stay here, perhaps none as well-preserved and impressive as the Pont de Gard, part of an engineering feat that brought water from a nearby spring to the city now known as Nimes. For historical context, the aqueduct was designed around the time that Jesus of Nazareth would have been at junior college and completed a decade or so after his untimely death. The entire project continued to function for the better part of 600 years before getting clogged. The bridge stands high above a bend in the Gardon River and, after you pay your nine euros parking, you have access to the grounds — 6,50 more will get you into the museum and the gardens — and it’s a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. You can dip your toes into the river and take a hike over the bridge next to the aqueduct. We scrambled up the hill on the other side of the river and found a dramatic upriver viewpoint over the site. Coco enjoys being off-leash for these hikes but, on the way back, the hot sun got to her and she went on a sit-down strike in the shade of some garrigue. Being a black poodle in sunny Provence is not easy! 

Our next trip was the most ambitious of all: an overnight trip to Nice on the French Riviera to see my old friend Leslie, who has relocated there permanently with her French-born husband and their son. The drive down the motorway was spectacular on its own, especially the massive Sainte-Victoire Mountain, just east of Aix-en-Provence. It’s a stunning site, even when driving by at 130 km/h, and it was apparently a favorite subject for locally-born failed lawyer — and artist — Paul Cezanne. Further on the highway, as you approach the striking pastel buildings of Nice, the sparkling Mediterranean appears on the right side of the road, framed by the mountains of the Parc Naturel Régional des Préalpes d’Azur on the left. It’s an amazing combination, and it was hard to concentrate on the driving. It was my first time on a real super highway since we arrived in Provence and pulling off onto the crowded city streets of Nice was little relief. I was happy when we found our aptly-named Hotel Oasis, where Tchekhov and Lenin had once been guests, not recently or necessarily at the same time.  

After dropping our bags, we met up with Leslie — our first time seeing each other since 2008 — and took a walking tour of the city, ending up on the pebbly Plage publique de l’opera (beach). After getting a feel for the city, we met up with Leslie’s husband Stephan and their son Jules for dinner at one of their favorite bistros. After a couple of months of more-or-less traveling on our own, it was such a delight to see an old friend and catch up on life, especially fellow expats! It was nice to find that we weren’t the only ones interested in getting out of the U.S. of A. The next morning we were up early, again walking all over Nice, encountering another anti-pension reform protest and a large farmer’s market before reluctantly saying goodbye to Leslie after an amazing pizza lunch on the outdoor Marché Aux Fleurs Cours Saleya. 

Back in Gadagne, we got caught up on laundry: not so easy with the combination washer/dryer that is common in Europe. The washing part is fine but “dryer” is probably a stretch. Your clothes come out damp at best and owning a drying rack is essential. At least in Provence the air will do the trick; in Ireland, we usually had to resort to two or three days on the rack to get things dry. Denise and I have adopted a general uniform: the same outer clothing worn most days and only changing out the socks and underwear. What are they gonna do, send us back to Portland? 

One of the things that I knew I’d miss the most about being in America was the rock and roll shows that I was used to occasionally attending. Of course, as soon as we made our plans to leave, a few of my favorite artists announced Portland dates, bumming me out. Luckily, one of those bands, Yo La Tengo, were headed to Europe soon after and I got out my map to see where we might intersect. The closest city to us was Brussels, Belgium, a mere five-hour high-speed train ride away. Logistically, both of us couldn’t make the trip since Coco needed to be looked after so Denise gave me her blessing to make the trip by myself and I quickly booked a train ticket and a cheap hotel room before she changed her mind. (It’s lovely to travel together but a few days apart once in a while is probably not a bad idea.) I wired ahead to the band to expect me — we’re old friends from my rock and roll days — and even suggested that we perform a song together, a not-uncommon event back in the 1980s. The show was at Ancienne Belgique, a beautiful venue in the heart of Brussels, and the site in 1989 of one of Big Dipper’s biggest shows ever: a one-day festival featuring our band along with Giant Sand, Wreckless Eric, and the Feelies. 

On the appointed day, we were up at dawn to drop me at the Avignon TGV for my 36-hour trip back to the 1980s. In what felt like no time at all, I was walking through Brussels on a chilly, drizzly Sunday, looking for my hotel room. I made my way down to the venue and met up with the band and their long-time tour manager Joe Puleo. Unlike the crowded backstage scenes in Portland, I was the only person they knew in Brussels so I got to spend some quality time with them, catching up. At soundcheck, the band and I ran through our song, a version of The Monochrome Set’s “He’s Frank” that Ira had selected in honor of my evangelical zeal for the band and, afterwards, the club served up a fantastic meal, cooked by an onsite chef. Ira let it slip during dinner that he and Georgia were celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary that night, but they were going to wait until after the tour to really celebrate. 

While the band got ready for their two-set night, I hung out on the dance floor as the 2,000-person capacity club filled up around me. The crowd was a mix of young and old, French and Flemish, including some teens tagging along with parents. I’m proud to say that both my boys are still fans of the band, long after they’d left behind most of the music we introduced to them when they were young. As usual, the band put on an amazing show, easily switching from gentle ballads to screeching, feedback-driven rockers, including about half of their excellent new album, This Stupid World. After their last song of the set, I made my way to the stage while Ira told the crowd about our 1989 show by way of introducing me to the crowd, half of whom probably weren’t even born by then. We launched into the song and it was over before I knew it. At one point, I looked out at the packed house and quickly realized that was a bad idea, instead focusing on the neck of the bass. I hadn’t played live in 15 years and it was a bit nerve-wracking — a gin & tonic right before I went on helped with the stage fright — and luckily the band is good enough to cover for a rusty bass player in their midst. It was a blast to see my old friends and revisit my seedy past, but none of it made me miss the lifestyle. After our goodbyes, the band got on their tour bus and headed to Amsterdam for the next show, and I went back to my hotel room, exhausted after being up for 18 hours straight. 

The next day, I was free to explore Brussels and the weather cooperated by warming and drying up. The hotel breakfast supplied enough carbs to keep me going all day and I spent the next eight hours walking around, taking in the sights of the capitol. It’s a beautiful city with incredible architecture, and most of the streets and sidewalks are still cobblestone. I had no memory of the city from my last visit in 1989 so it was like visiting for the first time. Unfortunately, all the museums and tours are closed on Mondays, but, frankly, I was happy to just stroll around, stopping occasionally to buy Belgian dark chocolate (chocolatiers here invented modern chocolate-making and their centuries of practice shows in the quality of the product), frites, and waffles. Honestly, I’m not sure how the people of Brussels manage to keep the weight off; I’m sure I put on a few pounds during my brief visit. The next morning, I walked to the Midi station and caught my connecting train to Paris, changed stations (Gard Nord to Gard Lyon) with no time to spare, and made it back to Avignon in time for lunch. It was a fun, whirlwind trip but it felt good to be back with Denise and Coco. 

After my return, and with only ten days left in Provence, we made plans to see the last few things on our list. Our first stop had literally been looming above us the whole time we were there: Mount Ventoux. As a loyal viewer of the Tour de France, I was very familiar with the mountain, which is a favorite of the fans if not the riders. From our village, you can see this particular minor Alp in the near distance, sometimes obscured by clouds, sometimes as clear as a picture, and it was one of the pleasant surprises of our trip that it was only a one hour drive away. We had to wait a few weeks before we got the right conditions as the weather at the top can be unpleasant. In fact, the south road, which we took to the top, had only recently been opened for the season while the north road remained closed due to snow. On the trip up, we encountered many cyclists — some on electric bikes, some using old fashioned pedal power — along with a fair share of folks like us making the climb in their cars. The lower part of the drive reminded us of the Sierra Mountains but, once we got near the top, the barren limestone was positively lunar. The views from the top were magnificent: it was not the clearest day possible but we could still see east to the Alps and a large section of Provence to the south. We celebrated at the summit with a cyclist who had made the ride on her birthday but hadn’t counted on a stiff wind keeping her candle from getting lit. I flashed back to all the early mornings I had spent on my couch watching the athletes climb this beast: even though a few of them may have been cheating, I don’t think I could make it to the top on the best doping drugs available. We stopped halfway down and had a picnic while several cyclists enjoyed the downhill part of their day at breakneck speed. 

We did finally make it back to Avignon to see the Palace of the Popes and we were not disappointed: it’s actually a fascinating self-tour using the HistoPad to help bring the mostly-bare rooms alive. I’m no fan of the Roman Catholic hierarchy but it was interesting to learn how the Popes — and AntiPopes! —  had come to leave the Vatican and reside in Provence. I mean, who can blame them? Have you been to Rome in August?  We concluded the tour by climbing up to the top of the ramparts where the cardiac stress test rewards you with sweeping views of Avignon and beyond. As we exited through the gift shop I was tempted to buy a Pope-branded bottle of wine but was torn between a bright, acidic Clement VII and a smooth, full-bodied Innocent VI and left empty-handed. 

Our last two trips — stay with me, we’re almost done — were to a couple of natural attractions unlike anything I’d experienced before. One warm afternoon, we visited Le Thor, the next town over, and one we had previously only used for grocery runs. However, Denise found that, in addition to the Intermarche grocery store, they had the Cave of Thouzon, a many-million-year-old cave of stalactites and stalagmites discovered by quarry workers in 1902 and one of the few caves in France that welcome tourists. Granted, there are no cave paintings: the only inhabitants of note were bats, but it’s still a pretty impressive 45-minute walk through geologic history. The guide spoke only French but the laminated notes he handed us at the start told us everything we needed to know. On the way home, we passed a small roadside sign alerting us to an upcoming turn to The Pierre Salinger Museum. Of course, it didn’t take any arm-twisting to get us to turn down the dirt lane to something so obscure and alluring: a whole museum dedicated to Pierre Salinger? Count us in. I mostly remember him from his stint as an Olympic commentator and a cameo on the Batman TV series but I was more than willing to learn why he had his own museum in rural Provence. Unfortunately, we were turned away by an employee at one of the attached restaurants who told us that “Madame Salinger gives the tours herself and she is not available.”  La vie n’est pas juste. 

Our final outing in Provence was a full-day, 10-mile hike that took us along a sleepy Luberon canal before climbing up and down a good-sized hill that ultimately deposited us into the town of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. I expected a sleepy village and I hoped we could find a shop open during the middle of the day break to serve us a cold drink. Instead, we found one of Provence’s largest tourist attractions, the site of a mysterious underground spring that is the powerful headwaters of the River Sorgue. It’s such a fascinating phenomenon that in 1946 Jacques Cousteau himself dove into the spring to try to find the source and nearly drowned in the attempt. It’s been pushing out 166,428,392,986 gallons of water per year for thousands of years. The water is as clear as any I’ve seen and the high limestone cliffs around the spring are equally impressive. On the way back to the car, our trail took us over a modern aqueduct that rose eight stories above the roadway, a vertiginous walk that I was not expecting. Like the Cave of Thouzon and the Salinger museum, I’d never heard of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse before but, if you’re in the area, I’d definitely recommend it. 

In the last few days of our stay in Chateauneuf-de-Gadagne, our social life picked up considerably. One evening, we joined the mayor at his request for a glass of wine and he turned out to be a very interesting cocktail hour companion. He had taken office the week that the Covid-related lockdowns started so he had some interesting stories to tell about that. In addition to his mayoral duties, he has a part-time gig as a spatial statistician, so he’s obviously a smart dude. We got to tell him that whatever he was doing with the town, it was working, because CdG was a very cool village, filled with really helpful and friendly people. Some of those people we got to meet on our dog walks and one couple, Jean and Anna, owners of a beagle puppy who had made friends with Coco, invited us to join them for dinner at a local restaurant. We met up the Wednesday before we left and had a great discussion over dinner and a couple of bottles of wine. It was a nice feeling to make a connection with new people who felt like they’d be our friends if we lived in the village. On the night before we left, we had a glass of wine with Beatrice, our Airbnb host (and a co-worker of Jean and Annas at an international fragrance company based in Avignon). 

It was difficult to say goodbye to Gadagne but we had talked to Mayor Klein, Jean, Anna, and Beatrice about the possibility of swinging back here next year. Of course, it would be a different place without the availability of a car but we’re keeping the idea on the table. On Friday morning, we got in the car and headed south to Toulon, where the ferry would take us on our overnight trip to Ajaccio, Corsica.  Thanks for reading! I’ll try to keep these more frequent (and thus, shorter) going forward.

Coming next to a blog near you:  Our Ferry trip to Corsica and life on this beautiful island!