Une Semaine en Provence: Le Début

Provence, southern neighbor to the Rhone Alpes, home of colorful flora, Roman ruins, and its own collection of delicious cuisine, made the cut as choice destination for my parents' visit during the first week of April vacation. It was where we were to spend the majority of our time with a few days in Lyon and Carcassonne.

I met my parents in Lyon's St. Exupery Airport, and we began day one of our trip exploring Lyon on foot. Not in us to take any form of public transportation, save the funicular to the hill of Notre Dame de la Fourviere, our feet were swollen and sore by the end of that day and the next. My parents seemed to be simply excited that spring had arrived in France since it hadn't yet in Chicago. The blossoming redbuds, glowing tulips, and green grass illuminated the Parc de la Tete d'Or, even as grey rainclouds floated overhead. The park was almost entirely ours as Lyon's population was still at work or in school. I probably learned the names of more plants and flowers than I ever have in my life thanks to my mom pointing out each colorful burst we passed.

Salads and Côte du Rhône in Lyon

We walked through markets, ate at a bouchon lyonnais (my parents have already tried to replicate la salade lyonnaise at home!) and strolled through Vieux Lyon. The weather was perfect and I could tell that my parents were experiencing sensory overload, taking in the people, cars, dogs (who are apparently better behaved in Europe than the U.S.) buildings, streets, and sounds of France. It was nice to show them the city that has become my second home and to see it again through appreciative eyes.

Banks of the Rhône, Lyon

From Lyon, we picked up our rental car and intended to head south tout de suite. Unfortunately, not used to the abundance of one way streets, we drove around Lyon in circles, sometimes skittering on the edges of its banlieues. Behind the wheel, I felt as if we were in one of those hedge mazes trying to find the right avenue out of the city and onto the A7 going to Marseille. I had to admit, even though I probably broke a handful of traffic laws, it was kinda cool to drive through the city I normally walk through.

Tension lifted when we finally escaped the gridlock of Lyon and I excitedly pointed out Chasse's church from the highway. Vineyards and hilltop castle/fortress ruins dotted the landscape into Provence. My mom and I had read up on our Peter Mayle literature and were ready for our own version of the region.

L'Isle sur la Sorgue, the Venice of Provence

We arrived in L'Isle sur la Sorgue, our base for the trip, before sundown. The busy Sunday antique market was in its last hour of flurry, lit in the sunset. Shoppers were adorned in shorts, skirts, and t-shirts. It was already warmer in Provence. After getting settled in our hotel room, we headed to L'Isle sur la Sorgue's claim to fame antique market and browsed ourselves. There were petanque (a Provencal style of bocce ball) sets, silverware, frightening looking dolls, and as much antique furniture as anyone could want. This market was slightly classier than the midnight one in Chambery this past weekend, where people brought all their junk (old magazines, underwear, and heaps of Barbie dolls with tangled hair) to the street in an attempt to make a little change, while people with miner's lights and flashlights searched for treasures.

View of the sunset from our balcony in L'Isle

The next day, our first stop was Fontaine de Vaucluse, a tiny village that pleasantly surprised all three of us. A fifteen minute drive from L'Isle sur la Sorgue, Fontaine is set in a mountain valley, the Sorgue river cutting through its small center. A path leads from the village's sole roundabout up to the the Sorgue's source.

The unknown source of the Sorgue River

Apparently, no one has been able to figure out where the water comes from, such is the geological make-up of the canyon. Instead, there exists a pagan legend of a nymph who presented herself to three villagers of L'Isle sur la Sorgue, hoping to escape the provencal summer heat in the river. Supposedly, the river sprung from one of several diamonds that the nymph produced in her hands to help the bewildered heat-exhausted villagers. Part of me doesn't understand how no one can figure out the source even to this day, but the other part of me likes that Fontaine holds this mystery. Then again, maybe it's just the leisurely Provencal attitude to getting around to doing things...

Fontaine de Vaucluse

The sound of the river and water rushing is ubiquitous. The slowly turning waterwheels and towering mountain faces make for a peaceful morning. My parents and I found an 11th century church near the river that was so simple that it must have done wonders for clearing the mind. These are my favorite type of churches. The ones with stained glass windows made from unconnected shards of glass, no more than one cross, and modest benches. There's nothing to distract and it radiates calm. Apparently this church used to be a pagan temple sometime before the 6th century dedicated to the Source of the Sorgue, but later it was torn down and turned into L'Église Saint Veran.

Statue in courtyard of L'Eglise Saint Veran

We had crepes and pizza for lunch at a cafe on the river and had a view of the silohuette of castle ruins on a hill, the sun shining brightly from behind it. Fontaine was our first village visit and remained one of our favorites at the end of the trip.

Mom and Dad exploring Gordes

From Fontaine, we drove to Gordes, a spectacular village spilling over a hillside, and holiday home locale for wealthy Parisians. My dad drove us around a corner and all of a sudden, an otherworldly view of Gordes smacked us in the face. We explored its steep cobblestone streets, and although there weren't many sights to see, it was Gordes itself that was the sight. From the village were panoramic views of the provencal countryside, rolling hills and snowcapped peaks in the distance. We would be returning to Gordes later in the week, to start a hike from its center and to visit a nearby borie village. More on that later.

Gordes

During our surveillance of the landscape around Gordes, we spotted the ochre cliffs of Roussillon just several minutes drive away. The reddish orange soil stood out in patchy spots among the forests surrounding it. The night before, we had flipped through a guidebook that my mom had purchased. I'd seen the ochre cliffs and told my parents that we couldn't miss it.

Red walls and vase in Roussillon

So off we went, the afternoon was in full swing and a hike on Mars was still ahead of us. When we reached Roussillon, we had to walk through its streets to reach the cliff park or Sentier des Ocres. The buildings were all the warm colors of a painter's palette, reddish pink, yellows, and oranges. We were walking through the walls of a sunset as the sun was setting. It appeared to be the most perfect provencal setting and helped to stave off our approaching exhaustion.

In the Sentier des Ocres in Roussillon

The pictures I had seen in my mom's book couldn't do justice for what we were about to set foot in. I felt like I was eight years old again with my parents walking into a natural playground. The Ochre Footpath is essentially a trail that leads the visitor through a coniferous forest sprouting out of the unique soil found on the colorful cliffs that were formed under the sea a long time ago. The plant life found here is not usual to Provence because of the minerals in the soil. We saw French families walking barefoot covered in red. Thankfully, my trusty Goretex shoes kept my white socks pristine. Obviously I had not retained all of my eight year old enthusiasm and had refrained from rolling around in the red soil.

Pinks and yellows of Roussillon

The village of Roussillon itself is an artist's haven, seeing as the park is the source of many earthy colored pigments. As we walked its streets, we saw an artist at work through the window of a sandy pink wall and many paintings of the natural wonder on display.

We left Roussillon late afternoon to head back to L'Isle sur la Sorgue for dinner on our balcony and an early night. When I closed my eyes to go to sleep, I saw ancient churches, the sunlight on a clear Sorgue river, and bright orange cliffs.

Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé...

Going to Marseille was supposed to mean sun and warm sea breezes, yet the exact opposite awaited us: rain, rain, cold, and more rain. It rained so much that several pairs of our socks were soaked, shoes waterlogged, and for some: umbrellas pushed to the limit.

There's definitely a thrill to going somewhere new, especially to the city that gave France's national anthem, "La Marseillaise" its current name. The first lines will forever be in my head, because my friends and I did a skit while singing it for extra credit in high school French class.

And even though I'd been to Marseille on a whirlwind study abroad trip in college, we'd only stopped for the afternoon to have lunch. Apparently, it was long enough for me to decide I'd wanted to be a teacher.

Six years later, I was back in Marseille for two days, wanting to give teaching a break, and with a different band of traveling companions. I've really learned that traveling and seeing places isn't really all in the sights themselves, but the people you see them with. The sights are just an added side bonus.

AJ, Jamie, Allison, Leslie, Maria, and I got on really well and I think that made our trip so good, good enough to laugh at the rain in its face.

Vieux Port (Old Port) as seen from Fort Entrecasteux. The boats give you an idea of Marseille's seafaring vibe. So will the variety of fish flopping around in plastic buckets on the dock. No one can say they aren't fresh.

View of Fort Saint Jean, marking the entrance to Vieux Port. I read that this fort was not intended to provide defense from the sea but instead from the city itself and uprisings against the governor. In the background is striped Cathedrale de la Major.

Here's Notre Dame de la Garde on a hill at night in the distance. Little did we know, AJ would take us on a hike through puddles and stone steps-turned-gushing waterfalls throughout the streets of Marseille. We thought she was leading us somewhere. She just wanted to walk around in the rain. Surprisingly, we all thought it was hilarious at the time.

Scene from our rain walk.

View of Marseille from Chateau d'If, a fortress made prison made museum, and setting of Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. Visiting France's version of Alcatraz, made me want to read the book, having known nothing about it beforehand.

Chateau d'If from the boat dock.

The island was relatively easy and cheap to get to, save the cold rain. Unfortunately, we sat inside the boat and not on top. This choice probably saved our limbs.

Below is a view of the other islands from the top of a tower.

Inside the Cathedrale de la Major and proof of my black and white photo experimentation. Apparently I was getting bored of color.

Hiking around the top of the hill on which Notre Dame de la Garde is situated, then watching the sunset while eating our gourmet cookies was probably one of my favorite parts of our weekend. I like being up high on hills, mountains, or even up on tall buildings. It's like coming up for air from the city or confined spaces below.

The view was spectacular.

Sunset (and that's got to be Chateau d'If in the distance) I'll just pretend it is..

Olive tree in the park of Palais Longchamp. Our last day was the sunniest and most gorgeous.

At least we had the morning.

Return of the Mistral in Valence and Tain l'Hermitage

Maybe it wasn't the mistral in full force, but a tributary of it definitely swept through our hair and chilled our bones the Saturday a group of us met in Valence.

Valence assistant, Allison kindly met Leslie, Jamie, Gearoid, and I at the train station and from there we strolled the streets of what seemed to be a very nice-sized city. At times Valence felt big, when we stood overlooking the park that gave a postcard picturesque mountainous skyline. And at other times, it felt quaint, like a small town you just stumbled upon sans touristes, complete with outdoor market.

I am obsessed with parks. This is a view from within the park looking up at a grandiose Versailles-esque fountain and stairways.

This is a courtyard of a Valence building in which Rabelais supposedly once lived.

A view of Tain l'Hermitage from the town of Tournon sur Rhone. If only Chasse sur Rhone could be this picturesque. I particularly like les vignobles et collines. Allison led us to Tain's hidden secret, a Valrhona Chocolate Store that had bowls and bowls of free samples. These weren't just ordinary pieces of chocolate, but glorious bits that came in flavors such as peanut butter, nougat, and pistachio. Needless to say, I made myself sick on sugar before we left without purchasing anything. Tastes that good don't come cheap.

Blue sky and church in Tournon sur Rhone.

Sometimes, there's nothing more enticing than a trail curling around a bend. This trail led us up some steep hills that were more difficult to get down than up. Great way to work off all that specialty chocolate...

Quaint church at the top of the hill. I believe that people once made pilgrimages to this church in the past. We never made it over there, but I wondered, if we had, would we have had the chance to sample some of the hill's wine like pilgrims of days yore? Unlikely.

View of the river from our highest point.

The mistral left us alone on the hills, while the sun shone down in our favor. Walking the vineyard trails made me want to get outside more and hike. It also made me respect the workers who venture out onto the steep hillsides and not so sturdy soil.

Lastly, it also made me a little thirsty for some wine...

Les bobos

Les bobos were the focus of tonight's culturally enhanced French class. Otherwise known as the bourgeois-bohême or bourgeois-bohemian social class of society, they've not only taken over the city of Lyon, but a lot of France as well.

Our substitute teacher gave us a survey of questions with which we were supposed to pretend to answer as a member of this particular social class. Both of the 'b' words bring forth stereotypes, but not many people in the class were entirely confident of this hybrid group's make-up, many of whom were apparently wandering the streets just outside of our classroom.

To shorten a ninety minute class into one long digestible sentence: les bobos are (for the most part)...

Thirty years old, married with kids who go to private school, living in a loft in the suburbs of a city, working at a white collar job or liberal profession, like to get around by either bike or Range Rover, like going to museums, Japanese restaurants, seeing Korean movies, and supporting PSG football matches, generally wear designer clothes, and vote for the green party but are generally moderate right politically.

All of this information comes from French singer, Renaud's song, Les Bobos, which we listened to in class on YouTube. Here are the lyrics in French.

From this description, maybe everyone has a little bit of "bobo" in them, but the sort of person that most comes to mind is "celebrity." Who's got loads of money and certainly spends it, but feels guilty enough to be somewhat ecologically minded?

Football

This'll be a quick one...

I'm not a huge football (soccer) fan, but in Europe, it's definitely some people's version of religion. I've tried to get into it, but to no avail. I still like the sport...any sport that can bring so many nationalities together and get people who otherwise might be on the street dealing drugs to kick a ball around sounds good to me. Also, in a time when eight year old kids are at a risk for carpal tunnel syndrome after playing too many handheld digital games, seeing them get together for a post lunch game in the schoolyard is refreshing.

Right now, there is a match on TV between Marseille and Amsterdam. I knew there was a match even before I turned on my TV. How? Because I have a new neighbor who's currently living in "la petite chambre" aka my residence for the month of October. There must be at least three people over there including the guy who lives there. How they fit in that tiny cramped space, I don't know. But it feels like I'm actually there, these people are so loud. Chanting, screaming, pounding the walls. I don't mind, as long as this finishes before I go to sleep.

Yoga en France

After waiting for my cold to go away, come home from vacation, and get paid, I was finally ready to take on a yoga class in Chasse.

Without an idea of where exactly the class would be held, what I would need to bring, or even if the instructor would let me participate without paying, I walked through the silent alley next to the schoolyard to the building where I was told the classes would be held. Not a thing stirred in Chasse. It seemed as though everyone was asleep.

Wandering around the building, I found a door, walked in, and followed noise and light upstairs. People were waiting outside the door to a large room. Inside the dim lit room was a circle of red mats, mirrors and a sparkly mural of Paris scenery, Eiffel Tower and all.

The first thing I noticed is that everyone had blankets or towels that they put over the mats. Did they think the mats were dirty?

After introducing myself "je suis nouvelle", the instructor let me participate and hoped I'd be able to understand everything.

How hard could it be? If I couldn't understand, then I could just look at everyone else and copy their moves. This proved to be more difficult when lying down on your back or being face-down on the mat. Also, not being familiar with French yoga lingo, I could barely relax, while trying to concentrate on what things meant.

Did this disturb me? No. I went to yoga not only to relax, but to better my listening comprehension in French. Also, it was a great workout. Afterwards, I couldn't even lift my shaking arms. And although the instructor had to help me a lot, I felt like a part of the class within no time. The class consisted of two girls who looked about my age, two older couples, and another older woman. It's the first time I've ever seen men in a yoga class.

The move that made my arms shake was something another woman described as a "cauchemar" or nightmare. While I did struggle with the moves and the language, I came home feeling great that I'd accomplished something. Then completely sore the next day.

6 au choix

The above picture is one of my favorite discoveries in France. Made just down the street at my grocery store. Instead of selecting candy from different bins, the lucky grocery shopper can choose any six miniature cheeses from several boxes. This is perfect for a foreigner who wants to sample a little bit of everything and take it home in a tiny bag, especially when the cheese aisle of the store can be overwhelming and slightly stinky.