Paris / Provence travel log 2006-12-23

As tiny Anna and tiny Will used to say, voices shooting to truly uncomfortable octaves: “It’s Christmas Eve eve!” Christmas is definitely in the air in France, though not quite in the same way as America. Mom pointed out that only a tiny minority of the shops we’ve entered are playing Christmas music, in stark contrast to the states, where retail employees have sued (successfully!) for mental anguish resulting from the constant barrage of holiday musak.

After a final breakfast at the hotel, we spent much of the day in transit from Paris to Provence. Our first stop was the Paris train station, where we played it very safe and arrived an hour and twenty minutes before our train was supposed to leave. I’m not sure we actually planned to play things quite so safe, but there you go. Anna and I made the most of it, entertaining Lauren and everyone else with stories from our travels together as small children.
Finally, it was time to get on the train, a bullet from Paris to Avignon. I was really surprised by the train, which rode much smoother and much faster than the other trains I’ve known (e.g., Amtrak, Caltrain). Perhaps newly-arrived Lauren’s jetlag was contagious, as I couldn’t help nodding off for most of the train ride.

It actually lent a slightly magical air to the trip. I’d wake up with a start, see the French countryside painted in frost slide silently by the window, and hear the drugged cat in the seat opposite yawn at me. I’d then nod off again, to wake some unknown time later and see the world now covered in snow, or drenched in sunshine. Every so often some unknowable French message would play through the loudspeaker, bracketed with electronic chimes. There were no stops to announce between Paris and Avignon, no stops at all. As near as I could tell, that French woman was just telling me: “Back to sleep. Back to sleep.”

We finally arrived in Avignon, all persons and parcels accounted for. We went through the usual and universal hassle of getting our rental cars, and then set out on the 35-minute drive to Alleins. Although we had multiple maps and direction printouts, we found our small town and our house almost by accident in the end. With no street numbers visible, we were eventually rescued by our landlord/host, Patrice, who said he heard English outside the window and came out to investigate. Here's the view outside our new home:
Patrice showed us around the house, which we’ll call home for the next week or so. It’s a gorgeous place in an amazing location. As Dad noted, three bakeries within a block. And Patrice was kind enough to give us the very detailed rundown: “Go to this bakery for bread. Go to the other for croissant. Never go to the third bakery. They are not good people. Seriously, I must tell you this.” Also had great tips on the Christmas markets and other great things to do in the area. Here's a picture of Patrice and our entire company (sans moi), at the end of the tour:
Although we really appreciated Patrice’s help, we were all starving, having missed lunch, and in some cases, having missed breakfast as well! Once Patrice left us with the keys and a hearty “bon nui,” we headed straight for the pizza parlor next door (there being nothing more French in sight), and had possibly my best meal since arriving in France. OK, so I was starving. But still, the pizza was very good, and the "American" ambiance was unbeatable. Enough seats for about 15 people (we filled the place, more or less), but it had a set of turntables in front, a disco ball spinning up above, and it was playing some light house/techno the whole time we were there.

At long last, we returned to the house to drink a bottle of wine and listen to music. The house has a wonderful old turntable, with some records gathering dust nearby. The records are all older than I am, which is something to think about. We tore through Dire Straits’ self-titled album, The Beatles’ “Rubber Soul,” and a Bach recording. We finally finished off the evening over wine and laughter with the Charlie Brown Christmas CD playing. Mom had brought it, of course. It’s been the Robinson family Christmas soundtrack ever since I can remember.

We have an early morning tomorrow, when we’ll be making our way to a Sunday market two towns over. Lauren’s eyes lit up at Patrice’s mention of the market, so how can I resist?