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Reluctantly we packed our bags and bid aurevoir to le Prieure. It was such a beautiful and picturesque place that I could've spent the remaining week and a half here without complaint. But alas, we had more sightseeing planned for today, and so away we went.
First stop though, was breakfast, again in the walled city of Avignon. We ate at a cafe in the central square facing the Palais des Papes, having our usual coffee and croissants, then paid our €7 entrance fee to see the inside of the Palais. Well, let's just say that the popes, having relocated here from their original home in Rome, were not starving, that's for sure. While thoroughly impressed with the architecture, arched roofs and colorful, richly painted walls, I've always marveled at the blatant opulence of religious houses, and wondered why it was necessary to worship God while surrounded by such riches. The very fact that there were at least two treasuries (one being referred to as the 'secret treasury') made me think that no extravagances were spared in the building and maintenance of the palace, which was first conceived in the 1300's under Pope Benedict XII. On its completion in 1364, it spanned an impressive 2.6 acres, which we unfortunately, we were not likely to cover in the one hour that we had allotted for our visit. The copain took a bunch of pictures and then we were ready to go. Before we left the city though, we shopped a bit, browsing through the little boutiques that were scattered within the city walls. The copain found a pair of shoes that he liked, in, get this, blue suede. Yes, blue suede shoes. I swore right then and there that every time he wears them I will break into song. He was rather impressed with his new Elvis shoes, so helplessly, I rolled my eyes and giggled. Well he certainly is entertaining, if nothing else!
From the city of Avignon, we drove for about a half an hour eastward with the hot sun upon us towards Gordes, first making an impromptu detour to The Village des Bories, a small area inhabited between the 16th and 19th centuries characterized by a cluster of stone huts resembling large beehives where people once lived alongside their sheep and pigs. The little structures were impressive, but certainly lacking in the creature comforts that I enjoy, and I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of sleeping in one of those cold stone huts.
Gordes was just slightly to the east, self-described as 'l'un des plus beaux villages de France,' one of the most beautiful villages of France. I didn't really know what to expect by reading this slogan, but as we drove further and further up a winding road, my breath was taken away by the first sight of the spectacular village that had been built into the mountainside, suspended over the Luberon Valley at over 600 meters above sea level at it's highest point. It was definitely a sight to behold. We parked in the heart of the village so that we could look around, but not before the copain, realizing that our newly purchased bottles of wine would likely become vinegar if it remained in the car under the hot sun with the rest of our luggage, decided that we had no choice but to take it with us. "ARE YOU SERIOUS?" I said. "Well you can take the box with less bottles," he said. Oh, I was annoyed. And hungry. And hot. And tired. Fine, I'll carry the damn box of wine, but first I'll need some food. Sensing my irritation, the copain quickly led us to a little cafe in the village square for some beef carpaccio and a bottle of sweet Muscat. Seems that my tolerance for wine had increased ever so slightly so I had a little more than usual and you certainly could tell. I teetered back and forth as we explored the cobblestone alleyways, climbing up and down haphazardly built stairs and trying my best to navigate the uneven terrain. We eventually wandered to a spot with a ridiculous view of the valley and I felt my knees get weak as I peered gingerly down below. Even in spite of being tipsy, I nonetheless appreciated the magnificence of where we were stood as I breathed in the sweet airy scent of the lavender which was growing wildly around us. This was the true Provencal experience, what I had been looking forward to. It was amazing, indescribable.
The moment ended, however, when we were politely yet firmly asked to vacate our spot, as it seemed we had wandered on to someone's private property. (People live here? So cool...) So with that, we made our way back towards the car. I was pretty exhausted after all the walking, which made the wine bottles that I was toting suddenly feel much heavier than before, and I'm not above admitting that I had more than one thought about pitching them off the edge of the cliff. We had actually stopped in to the local post office to see if we could ship them home rather than carry them everywhere else with us, but apparently, this practice is not allowed in Canada! (Granted for all they knew, it could have been olive oil, but with our name and address clearly labeled on the box, we figured it was best not to chance it). At this point, I went on strike and refused to carry the wine bottles any longer, so the copain, sweaty and fatigued himself, carried all 5 bottles the rest of the way up the hill to the parkade.
I passed out completely in the car ride to the next village from the lethal combination of the wine, heat, and exhaustion. When I woke, we were in Menerbes, another quaint little walled village in the Vaucluse, to the south of Gordes. While Gordes was congested with tourists, Menerbes was quiet and I relished in the peace. We left the car parked under some shade (which to my relief, meant not having to lug the wine with us) and wandered the streets of this small commune. The alleyways were little more than arm's length wide and were lined with small shops, restaurants, and residences. The charming little apartments were built two or three stories high of grey weathered stone with elegantly outstretched vines climbing the walls and I smiled dreamily as I contemplated what life would be like to live here. We actually didn't end up in Menerbes by accident. The copain was also reading 'A Year in Provence,' an auto-biographical novel by Peter Mayle, which chronicles the story of him and his wife moving from England to a house somewhere between Menerbes and the neighboring village of Bonnieux in the 1980's. It was not hard to understand why they had chosen this spot; life was uncomplicated and unhurried here: Lunches were at least two hours long and overtime was unheard of. The concept of take-out or coffees-to-go was foreign to the locals, and thoroughly frowned upon I'm sure. We stopped in for a break at a small cafe with a terrace looking out over the valley, where a rather fluffy long-haired cat slept languidly and unbothered on the balcony ledge. Even the animals here knew how to enjoy life, ensuring that they got in their daily siestas along with their human counterparts. Talk about joie de vivre!
Fighting against the clock, which registered nearly 5pm at this point, we made a last stop in Bonnieux, pausing on the side of the road only briefly to take pictures of the village before heading to Aix-en-Provence where we would be spending the night. That hour long drive was one of the most scenic and beautiful that I'd ever experienced. Though the road was winding and treacherous, we drove up and down over hills and in between acres of lush greenery, vineyards, and trees boasting olives and grapes, shaded by the grand cliffs of stone that jutted out into the blue sky. It was still fairly warm so the convertible top was down once again and the wind blew wildly through our hair as we breathed in the fresh Provencal air. There were also very few cars on the road and I felt wistful and relaxed, as if we were in some alternate universe where worries and cares didn't exist; where there was only good wine, great food, and a simple existence. I can't remember when I felt more content.
The Hotel Cezanne would be our home for the night, but right away neither of us was impressed with the city of Aix. I'm sure it didn't help that we had just come from one of the most picturesque parts of the world, but Aix just seemed busy, chaotic and grimey. Our hotel, touted as the hippest in the city, sat unimpressively and plainly on the corner of the Avenue Victor Hugo; our ground floor room was small and cramped, and behind a long white curtain was a window that looked out into garbage cans perched crookedly in the alleyway. Although I was content to crawl into bed for a good nap, I could tell that the copain was agitated, and that he felt the same level of dissatisfaction at the pointed contrast between La Prieure from the night before and the current disappointment that was this hotel. But nonetheless we had to eat, so after a short shut-eye, we dressed and walked into the heart of the city to find the restaurant L'Alcove, which was hidden in a quiet little alleyway amongst several apartments with their doors swung wide open into the street. Our table was outside on the "patio," which was essentially right in the alleyway, allowing us fairly intimate views into people's homes. It was actually a great little meal which started off with mushrooms sauteed in meat sauce for me and escargot for the copain (which I tried for the first time and didn't particularly enjoy). The copain's main dish was a ham steak on a bed of a mixture of richly flavored pumpkin, potato, and onions. It was delectable, and my sea bass paled in comparison to its deep smoky taste. "Is it boar?" the copain asked our very kind waiter "un cauchon avec dents, you know, a pig with teeth?" He put his fingers to his lips to demonstrate (the wine strikes again). But apparently it wasn't boar, exactly, it was actually the meat of the famous Sanglier, a wild black pig from the region. (We looked it up on YouTube later on and saw that it was a rather cute little animal, and runs fairly fast when being chased by dogs during a hunt for dinners like ours. Poor little piggy...)
I quite enjoyed that evening, which was highlighted by our very patient waiter who humored me as I asked him how to say random words like 'mouse' and 'cow' in French. Also during our dinner, a hideously adorable black miniature pitbull belonging to a man eating at the restaurant next door returned again and again to beg for food, putting on the most pitiful little face he could muster, engaging in lengthy staring contests with the copain despite numerous reprimands from his owner. At our neighboring table, which was situated only about 3 inches away, sat a friendly local couple who engaged in casual conversation with us, the man jokingly shielding his dessert from our view as we peered over curiously and the copain's fork drew dangerously close to his chocolate tart. Such fun!
After yet another long meal (it was nearly midnight), we strolled (or stumbled, can't quite recall) through the narrow streets back towards the Cezzane, encountering a lively night scene in the city's centre with numerous bars and restaurants crowded with the young, hip and fashionable. I actually felt quite at home there......well, maybe except for the young and hip part. Sigh......
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