Perspective in a Cave

In Provence, Van Gogh is king. His picture is hanging in shops, his paintings are copied and sold all around, his favorite drink, absinthe, is stacked in great supply in the corner of every store. If he created but one painting in a certain place, you are sure to know it and the city is sure to capitalize on it. St. Remy is no exception; throughout the town, plaques with his paintings are placed in the spot from which he painted the original over a hundred years before. While we haven’t taken the official Van Gogh tour of Provence, each stop of significance another site from which he painted, we have explored a nearby spot worth mentioning. In Les Baux, an old city atop a hill, centered around its once grand and now crumbling castle, there are caves carved out of the solid rock. In one of these such caves a creative entrepreneur has put the space to better use than just a dark, dank place to get out of the rain. The Cathedral d’Images is a state-of-the-art tourist trap, worth every Euro cent. As we approached, the caves looked as ordinary as any of the others we passed en route. After paying a nominal fee at the simple ticket counter, we ventured into the heavy coolness of the space. Essentially, the Cathedral is a grand art gallery, but instead of stuffy critics, bundled-up tourists file through and instead of prized works, small and framed on the walls, the caves interior is bathed in the light of a dozen high-powered LCD projectors. Images of famous works, over three stories high, hang as tapestries of light and color from the stone walls and pillars. The images change and move, scrolling across the surface of the cave’s interior, projected from the machines overhead. I have been twice now, to the caves, the first at Thanksgiving and the second at Christmas. Between times, however, my perspective has changed a bit. One of the many works of literature that we brought on our European journey was a copy of Lust for Life, borrowed from Whitney’s mother. It is a poetic and richly descriptive biography of Vincent Van Gogh’s life. Written like a novel rather than a history book, it quickly captured my attention and ushered me into a place of understanding and appreciation of this oft misunderstood man. Before this simple education, Van Gogh seemed crazed, inaccurate, even inarticulate. I felt like he was a child, twirling his paintbrush through color and arriving at a harsh depiction what could have been a beautiful scene. But as I read, I better grasped the mind behind the canvas, the struggles, the rejection he suffered and the tenacity with which he pursued the excellence he eventually attained. Needless to say, my Christmas trip was a more rewarding experience. While initially I was awed at the genius of the project itself, the projectors, the atmosphere, the general idea of the thing, the second visit I was much more drawn to the work itself. While my knowledge of the artist’s life was still no more than elementary, I now saw behind the paint and canvas, to the pain he carried and the joys and triumphs that propelled him to some of his most renowned and beautiful pieces.

As I went from interest to appreciation, I felt a surge of hope in my own life. So often I think that what I have to say is insignificant. While I would love to write beautifully and artfully and adventurously, I feel like the page ends with a drab, monotone depiction of an ordinary day in an ordinary life. And yet, when I look at Van Gogh’s work now, I don’t appreciate the depiction of a scene to its most minute and perfect detail, if I wanted such a scene I would buy a photo taken on that very spot, no, instead I see through eyes that are different than mine, eyes seeing through emotion and experience as a pair of glasses, eyes that saw shapes and lines and colors that I could never see. And that is what I can only hope to do. I hope to be another set of eyes through which the world sees, one that may be different enough that some learning or beauty or understanding comes by looking through.

Lost without Translation

Last night we were elbow to elbow with the locals. I had been anticipating the ‘Marche de Noel,’ the Christmas Market, for a few weeks and the evening had finally come. Traditionally, the gathering of local vendors was an easy and efficient way for the community to prepare for the ‘Gros Souper,’ or Big Dinner, that fell on Christmas Eve. However, the market seemed to have evolved a bit. We saw a variety of items strewn across a few dozen stands, most seemingly unhelpful in making the Big Dinner prep any easier. But we enjoyed perusing, just the same. The hot, sweet scent of crepes mixed with the soft smoke of the chestnuts, roasting, literally, on an open fire. Once inside the large tent, we saw that Santon figures, another Provencal tradition, were carefully set in strict rows, a colorful little army of bakers and huntsmen and grazing animals. The Santons are little clay objects, painted gaily and precisely, and then set up as peripherals to a huge nativity scene. Basically, rather than just Mary, Joseph, Jesus and a few accompanying characters, the Santon scene is an entire village spilling over the landscape of lavender and red-roofed homes. Take the little snow-capped village homes with twinkling lights that are sold in the States, multiply the popularity and size of the set-up by ten and you’re getting closer to the picture. The rest of the vendors were a combination of ceramics, art, fabrics and food. The food, while useless for preparing the Gros Souper, was delightful for the perusing tourist. We dipped some bread at a stand with a rainbow of vinegars to try. We nibbled a bit of cookie, not recognizing the flavor, but enjoying it just the same. We filled our pockets with several flavors of ‘fougasse,’ which I can only describe as the French response to the German pretzel. After getting our fill we walked out into the crisp night, the crowds still pulsing in and out of the tent, flowing through the town’s artery for the holiday weekend. While wrapped in typical winter gear, we were warm, the night had dipped only to 50 degrees, and the slight sense of wind was diminished by the buildings of the city centre and the crowds that filled it. I felt a sense of relief as we walked out, the glitter of white lights strung from tree to tree over our heads. I realized that a carefree event had taken on an indistinct pressure, here. The presence of a crowd, speaking a language with which I was so barely familiar, totally at home in their surroundings, had become a tinge overwhelming in the few minutes in the tent. While I would love to say the last seven weeks in France has given me courage in my ability to communicate, honestly it has done the opposite. Rather than attempting my staggering, staccato attempts at speech, it seems I avoid lingering eye contact or a smiling clerk or an offered sample, simply to miss the possibility of an awkward encounter.

Last week we went to a nearby chateau, famed more for its vineyards and olive oil than its buildings, to tour and to taste. We poked our heads through the heavy drapes that protected the bistro from the mistrals, and were led to a wine barrel table. The interior was inviting. Christmas trees propped in every corner and huge chandeliers cast a romantic glow on the dark woods of the tables and floor. We pulled out the menu and pointed out our requests to the friendly waiter. After we had spent a few minutes nibbling on our Swiss fondue and sipping the establishment’s fine wine, a thin, smiling, youthful man approached our table. He began in French, but hearing our accents and our delayed response, he asked if we spoke English. A relief spilled through me and I eagerly said ‘yes.’ We answered his questions, complimenting the food and the place and telling him where we were from. Then I began explaining how my family was coming for Christmas and we would like to come back and when are you open and what do you serve and where can we taste wines and on and on. Later I smiled to myself, thinking how gracious the man was in response to my little life story. I had unknowingly craved interaction and yet with the barrier of language, my smiles, my ‘mercis,’ and my gestures of politeness were falling so very short. When I finally had an outlet, someone who was comfortable with my language, I exploded with conversation, like a kid describing their newest toy.

These two events made me realize how much I need contact with people. I need daily connections with those around me, even if it’s as simple as getting directions from a gas station attendant or gawking at the amount of snow with the barista at a coffee shop. Funny how those things seem like such annoyances at home, how transactional they become, how you can forget that the person on the other side of the counter, or in front of you in line, or next to you at a red light is, indeed, a person. While I look forward to many things in our return to America, that is the thing I anticipate the most. Being able to communicate pleasure with the food at a quaint café or wish someone a Merry Christmas on my way out of the grocery store, these are the things that I sadly missed in my busyness of life and now I miss them in a whole different way.

Le Marche

An invariable part of our weekly routine in St. Remy is the open-air market. Every Wednesday, whether misting rain, mistral winds or brilliant sun and sixty, we meander our way through the stalls downtown, perusing the local goods. It has become one of the only consistencies in our time here. We drive into town, through the market area, and come out the other side, park next to the tourist information office for one Euro, and turn around, heading back into town to explore.

Our first stop is inevitably the traditional Provencal goods. There are soaps of every possible flavor, their scents so potent and perfect, it seems as thought they are pure concentrate. The dark green bar, rough and very masculine, holds the smell of a thousand olives, pressed closely and barely contained in one single soap. The soft purple one stands out, as there are so many more of this one, and without picking it up, acres of lavender fields waft from the table, through the other soaps, and into your nose. So of course, this first stop holds our attention for several minutes each week as we pick up every colored bar to breathe it in, surprised at how each one does indeed smell just like the name engraved on its face. The nearby tables are of items we don’t care too much to sift through. A large camper-style van unfolds to reveal hundreds of pairs of brand-new shoes. Another vehicle spews out purses and wallets and bags of every kind, covering the large tables and the ground nearby. Then we come to another traditional Provencal item and, of course, another stop in our journey. These tables are weighted down heavily in the authentic, time-honored fabrics of the region. Many are covered in bright yellows and oranges and reds and adorned with images of olives or stalks lavender. They come in square, rectangle and circle. There are napkins and placemats and tablecloths. There are outdoor and indoor and cotton and linen. Picking up each fabric, we continue to peruse, receiving a ‘bon jour’ from the stand’s proprietor. Commenting on each one, of course they’re all so ‘cute,’ we bid ‘au revoir’ to the friendly local salesperson and expertly steer our way through the scene. We may stop at another table or two, perhaps to look at a quilt or a briefcase or a new set of silver boule balls, but we have accomplished our goals on this side of the street and the remaining few minutes are really just steps to get us closer to the other part of the market.

Where the first section of shops seemed orderly, more like an outdoor store than anything else, the other side of the street is throbbing with all the life and wonderful chaos that just makes sense at a market. There is a Dutchman, selling chocolate wafer cookies. He’s heating them up a on a griddle and we eagerly take one of the samples. We buy a bag from him and discover he too is living in the south of France for three months, traveling from place to place, selling these simple wafers, in order to bring back a big bag of cash to his home in Amsterdam. Then there is a Vietnamese man, busily picking it out fried items, handing steaming bags of lunch to the line of hungry French people. His line is consistently the longest, we pass by and vow next time we’ll stop. Then we wander through the alley of fruit. Bright orange clementines adorn a large chunk of one table, they’re so fresh and vibrant, we can’t help but grab a few. There are bananas, carrots, avocados and pineapple. There are several kinds of mushrooms and huge cloves of fresh garlic. Tables of juicy, colorful produce spread out towards one end of the market, where they’ve stuck the fishmonger, and his smells, who brought his fresh catch today, salmon.

Back around, past the Dutchman and the fried spring rolls, the Italian offers us a sample of his gourmet cheese, huge rounds, all identical, are stacked on each other, giving you only one, albeit very good, choice for the day. The meat vendors are next, shoving chunks of their savory treats on toothpicks into your hands, offering you toro, and beef and donkey. The next few stands are more of the same, a butcher stands by, watching the small chickens spin to a golden brown in the rotisserie. A man selling ‘confiture de candard’ and foie gras doesn’t attract too much attention from us, just passing tourists not quite daring enough to dip into anything that gourmet. Our favorite stand is next, a happy couple, bubbling over with conversation and tastes of their delightful product, invite us in. These tapenades are incredible. Tomato, basil, and garlic have become our favorites, so we pick up these three, again, and tell our friends we’ll see them next week. This week, due to our regularity, they include a special ‘gift,’ yet another flavor to get us hooked on.

The rest of the market continues, winding around a small square’s fountain, with more of the same. A butcher, a cheese vendor and a vegetable seller. A few tables of wine and a stand with heaps of olives, flavored with every spice and in every possible shade of green. At this point, we are usually content with our purchases and head in to town, perhaps to wander into a few shops or stop by our favorite crepes store, but that is for another post.

As we cross the street, heading back to the lot, cars slow gently for us, knowing today is market day, and I notice an odd sense of community has developed. It seems as though everyone in St. Remy comes to the square on Wednesdays. They may simply need a small bag of olives or a few pieces of fruit. It’s surely more practical or efficient or cost-effective to go to the supermarket, but the attraction of this place, teeming with energy, and the feel of a family, continues to draw people back. We have grown to love Tuesday nights, because we know on Wednesday just where we’ll be, just where we belong.

Beauty in the Rearview

As my car slowed around the bend, I peered into my mirror, searching through the haze. And then I saw them, the majestic Alpilles, veiled in a curtain of wispy fog and clouds. Snow crested, far off and strong these mountains had been here all along. It seems so often, however, that I notice them for the first time as I go home. It seems, sometimes, as though the entire day has been simply a string of events to accomplish, agenda items to check off the list in the most efficient manner possible. Here I am, in the most calm, laid-back place on earth. The South of France where it seems no one works, where people just eat and drink and be merry. And yet, old habits die hard, I suppose. I am an American, with an American work ethic and an American set of ideals and a tendency towards American efficiency. So yesterday, when we awoke to 60 degrees and beautiful sunshine, it became my goal to take advantage of such a perfect situation to accomplish as much possible.

We headed to Les Baux, a nearby village set atop cliffs and perched over an amazing valley. We got stopped, however, barely out of the front door. Our new 'neighbors' introduced themselves and we proceeded to spend the better part of 30 minutes conversing about travels, adventures and various destinations across the world. I hid my anxiety and eagerness to get out on the road, I hid my misguided goal-seeking mindset and smiled and nodded and chatted. So with that slow start I already felt 'behind,' as though at the end of the day I would be graded and these precious minutes, 'wasted' in our driveway, would bring me from an A to an A-. On our way out of St. Remy we decided to stop at the Glanum Ruins, a site birthed way before Christ. A sweet little dog became Whitney's friend and I felt, for whatever unusual, unfounded and downright wrong reason, that this little pup was an annoyance. We had things to do, museums to visit, ruins to explore and our day to get on with. We had no time to stop and pet a dog for five seconds! No way! So I hustled us across the street, paid our entrance and wandered through the ruins, stopping long enough to get a quick history and an idea of the territory. Glanum Ruins? Check! Now, off to our next destination. Winding through the roads leading to Les Baux, we both realized the increased amount of traffic since our last visit. Apparently we weren't the only tourists in France to be enjoying the weather. So pulling through the parking lot, attempting to avoid the German tour groups and the kids munching fresh caramels, I pessimistically searched for a spot. Getting into the city, I suddenly felt disoriented. I didn't know why we were there. I had seen this village three time previously, been in every shop at least twice and taken in the views from the cliffs more times than I had needed. So what was I doing here?, I so efficiently asked myself. I am among the throngs of men whose top leisure activity is not shopping. And so when, for the third time, Whitney decided to go into the cicadas shop and smell every one of the 29 soap flavors, I was moving from disoriented to impatient. Again, here I was, with complete freedom of schedule, of destination, of time, and yet I was wondering why we were still here and wondering how many more sites we could tick off before the sun set in two hours.

While I improved over the next hour, disciplining myself for my mindset and vowing to take it a little easier in the future, I had successfully squandered two hours of what could have been such an amazing day. And then there we were again, back in the car, rushing around the final corner before Mas Dagan and I looked into the rearview. The Alpilles were still there, reminding me, chiding me, to not miss the beauty again, to see each day and each moment as something valuable. To see each challenge as an opportunity to learn, each interaction as a chance to love and each task as a moment to be a little less efficient.

The Scent of Home

I would say 95 days is pretty good. Not one post dedicated to missing home on this blog in 95 days. Not to say we haven't, I'll give you that, but I simply haven't mentioned it. Sure we have craved Chili's fajitas or missed our family traditions or even wished we were window shopping at Macy's Christmas displays (shocking coming from me, I know). Today, I was alone all day. Whitney is with her mom and sister in Florence, Italy so the cats and I are holding down the fort. To be honest, I spent most of the day in bed. Reading, watching movies and eating made up the good percentage of activities. One thing struck me, amidst the silence of this 'home.' Every time I got up, or moved to a different part of the house for whatever momentary errand I had to run before climbing back into the warmth of my bed, I noticed the smells. Its not that there are bad smells, although one room (that we've rendered off-limits) does smell a little bit like a dying animal (most likely an unfortunate mouse or six), its simply that the smells are different.

Back at Bay View Lane, I knew the smells of my house. I knew when I walked into the house and my eyes would sting from the burn of cleaning supplies, that the bathrooms had just been clean. I knew that when I went to the fridge to grab some water before heading to bed that the smells of veggies or leftovers or not-yet-cleaned pots were my smells. Here, however, the smells are different. There's a mustiness. It lingers in the closets sometimes or in the corners of the rooms, its not bad necessarily, just like a cabin smells before the summer starts and the trees have yet to blow away the winter that settled in for a few months. And sometimes there's a sweet smell, like someone had just cooked in the kitchen, but I hadn't. Then there are smells that I just dream up, like that one of the cats had another 'accident' on our duvet. But all of these smells remind me that I'm not at home. Different is good, so often I believe that to be true, but then sometimes, whether it be a musty closet or a sweet smelling kitchen that prompts me, I want the same. I want things that I know and remember and miss. And tonight, just a little bit, I wish I could be back in my home, where I know where I am and know that I belong and know that the smells, whatever they are, are mine.

"Dinde pour Thanksgiving"

This year we are hosting Thanksgiving. This, the grandest-of-all-meals holiday, can be a lot of work. Basting and cooking the turkey, rolling the dough for the home-made apple pie, mashing the potatoes and saucing the cranberries and remembering through it all to be thankful that I haven’t burned the turkey or burned my hand or burned down the house. And that is Thanksgiving in America. Now, don’t get me wrong, France is as gourmet as they come, but they don’t have apple pie. They don’t have frozen corn or Cool Whip or Jennie-O turkeys in the deep-freeze. While they may have Jell-O, I couldn’t find it and I’m pretty sure they aren’t into sweet potatoes or Stove Top stuffing. So all that to say, Thanksgiving in France is a lot more work. Whitney has been stressed about the centerpiece of it all, the turkey. We couldn’t find one at the supermarket and we weren’t sure where else to turn. So today, we wandered into the Boucherie where we were hoping for some French-butcher magic. As usual, we stumbled through our request, pointing out ‘dinde’ (turkey) in our French-English dictionary to the questioning butcher. At this realization he quickly and emphatically shook his head. Adding to our fears he said something about ‘not in St. Remy at all,’ but out ‘there’ with a gesture to who-knows-where. So a little downtrodden, we left the store and stood stunned in the Provencal sunlight of the square. Whitney, while not quite near tears, was helpless. This was the biggest, most crucial part of the Thanksgiving feast and it was all about to go down the drain if the best we could do were a couple of wimpy, head-still-on, 3 pound chickens. I mean, really, what is Thanksgiving without turkey? The turkey is the real reason for the season, the real accomplishment for which we stuff our faces and then roll ourselves to the couch for the Lions-Cowboys game or a first-of-the-year Christmas movie on Lifetime. Who remembers the Pilgrims anymore anyway? So despite the lack of good ideas (I had thrown out the option of picking our own turkey at the local farm, needless to say that idea was turned down out of sympathy for the turkey) we headed back to our car, arms vacant of that turkey we had so hoped to be cradling back to our home. I was starving so we had to go get our apple turnovers at the bakery and had to pick up a few things at the supermarket, so the potential for a miracle somewhere along the way gave us hope. And a miracle it was. Sitting precariously between the electronics store and the magazine shop was a meat market that looked like an autoshop. Whitney’s eyes gleamed with the hopes of redeeming Thanksgiving. In we went, chock full of anticipation and random turkey-related vocabulary. Two of the nicest Frenchmen we have met greeted us with smiles. Whitney masterfully (or at very least, effectively) communicated our dire need for the large bird and they agreed that this feat would be possible. It was a victory. We walked out triumphant, saying ‘au revoir’ ‘til Thursday morning when we would finally meet the meal and get a few last minute cooking instructions. Through this adventure, I must admit, I was skeptical and essentially void of the passion Whitney had in seeking the ingredients for the perfect Thanksgiving feast. I figured, worst case scenario, we would stuff a few chickens with Stove Top imported by the Zimmerman clan and wash it down with a little French wine. No biggie, all would be well. And so, at first, Whitney’s tenacious pursuit was baffling. Then it seemed, slowly as usual, to dawn on me. This turkey wasn’t the focus of her resolve. She didn’t truly care whether or not she munched a turkey leg or a chicken wing. What she wanted was home. She wanted some sense of order, she wanted everyone to feel comfortable, she wanted things to be the way they should be. And for that, we needed a turkey. In a week, if all goes well, we will be sitting around a table surrounded by the beauty of southern France, embraced by the warmth of our friends and family and staring at a big ol’ turkey. And then, all will be well. All will be as it should be.

The Feel of France

While sometimes words can describe perfectly, bring you to a place, transport you to the sounds and smells of a faraway country, sometimes a picture can help give a feel. Hopefully these can help convey a little better what we are experiencing here at Mas Dagan. All of these pictures are of the property.
Going directly to the slideshow is much better than the dinky imbed so here's the address:
http://picasaweb.google.com/michaeljohnlarson/MasDagan#slideshow