Provence / Paris travel log 2006-12-30

The magic TGV train whisked us away from Provence and back to Paris early this morning. Nathan, Anna, Lauren, and I said our goodbyes to the rest of the group (flying home today), then heard the echoes vanish in Doppler shift and wind.

Aboard the train, we hashed out tentative New Year’s plans and slept. Mainly, we slept.

From the Paris train station, it was a short cab ride to our hotel, the Hotel des Nations St. Germain. Our rooms are cozy but clean, the lady at the front desk is really friendly, and the location in the heart of the Latin Quarter is a big hit with Nathan.

All of us were overloaded on French food, so we decided to go ethnic, choosing a Vietnamese place recommended in my Lonely Planet Paris travel guide. Food was light, crisp, and delicious – just what we were hoping for.After lunch, Lauren wasn’t feeling quite right, so she and I returned to the hotel to nap, while Anna and Nathan made their pilgrimage to the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore.

After waking, Lauren and I took to the streets, enjoying the noticeably warmer weather and wandering without much purpose. Paris is a city that rewards romantic aimlessness, and we ended up carrying roses, apples, and large smiles into the café where we ducked for coffee.

As we’d agreed earlier, we met Nathan and Anna back at the hotel at 7pm. Continuing our rebellion against French food, we walked to a nearby North African / Moroccan place. The atmosphere and food were perfect: geometric tiles covering the walls, stewed meats, dates, honey, almonds; hookah bar in front, restaurant in back. Again, just what we wanted.We tried to round out the night with a jazz club visit, but our first choice was closed. After walking further to option #2, we found that there was a cover charge and that Nathan wasn’t feeling quite right. So we said au revior till tomorrow, Anna and Nathan walking home, and Lauren and I heading in for some jazz.

As I write this on my ever-handy notepad, Lauren and I are leaning back in Le Petit Journal St.-Michel, sipping our kir, while in the air above us the sounds of keyboard and bass, clarinet and drum mingle with the half-drunk French and the cigarette smoke. An old man is smiling at me. Life is good.

Provence / Paris Travel Log 2006-12-30 (Lauren)

Paris Jazz Club: Le Petit Journal

Here is how to listen to Parisian music. Will sits beside me writing the events of the day. We found a jazz club in the Latin quarter playing rolling jazz -- the big, jolly kind. We are drinking kir and the bubbles are rising in crisp sizzles off my tongue.

The woman in front of us wears a thin blue sweaters and the puckers from her bra spread across her back. She is a tiny woman and rounded and softened with her age -- she is moving her shoulders in time to the music. At another booth, a handsome American in a yellow t-shirt loudly tells his friends about the German girl that married his buddy, and in another booth a young woman on a date strokes her young man's hair.

The woman sitting at the table next to us is drunk. She laughs loudly in French and stands to undo the top button of her pants. Will is comforting and warm in his cashmere sweater, and I am luxuriating against the solid mass of his chest. His arm drapes over me and I am blissful beneath the indolent arc.

Provence travel log 2006-12-29

We left the house early this morning to make the longish drive to the Pont du Gard. This famous Roman aqueduct was the largest of its kind. They began construction in 16 BC, erecting a structure only 2 yards shorter than Rome’s coliseum. Of course, the really amazing thing is that the Pont du Gard has stood for 2,000 years, surviving countless floods, wars, and even stone theft (medieval construction workers couldn’t resist the perfectly cut stones). The pictures really speak for themselves:Afterward, Nathan, Anna, and Mom split off to go wine-tasting and cheese-tasting in some nearby villages. Sam, Dee, Lauren, Dad, and I went the other way to see the Palace of the Pope. After parking near the palace, we first grabbed lunch at L’Isle Sonnante, which was listed in Dad’s guidebook as a cozy, rustic place for a bite. It was so small that they couldn’t even seat us all together, so Lauren and I unintentionally got a romantic lunch date out of the deal. Our main course was pork stew, polenta, and a smattering of veggies. For dessert, I had a chocolate terrine with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream. Chocolate terrine is apparently French for “a big pile of the best chocolate you’ve ever tasted.” I shared half with Lauren, and spent the rest of the day bragging about my self-restraint.

From there, it was on to the Palace itself. It was fun and worth seeing, but in this case, Palace is apparently French for “a very large, very cold, mostly empty stone building.” The audio tour also went for completeness over impact, so eventually we stopped neurotically listening to all of the audio tour stops. We instead just enjoyed the view and imagined what the palace must have been like during the hundred-odd years that the papacy was seated there instead of Rome.After the Palace, we reconvened at home. Nathan gave us his most impressive French display yet as he made the dinner reservation on the phone. Then we all headed out to dinner, except for Lauren who diagnosed herself as “over-excited and in serious need of a nap.”

Dinner was 20 minutes from home in a town called Salon de Provence. The restaurant was part of a posh boutique hotel called Maison du Soleil, and the chef was Francis Robin, who I assume is a big deal since his name was everywhere (even painted on the plates). Dinner was the most French meal we’ve had. I had a guinea fowl salad, hearty rabbit in a Bordeaux wine sauce, and then about 5 different sweets. Oh, and a prune.It’s worth noting that the restaurant was way off the beaten path, up a hill in a residential area. It took many tries and wrong turns to find, and we felt like we’d really accomplished something when we made it there. Definitely not the kind of restaurant you could just stumble onto. Hooray for good guidebooks!

Provence travel log 2006-12-28

This was a day of many small towns. First stop was L'Isle sur la Sorgue, where we marveled at the iced-over waterwheels spinning in the river. Dad says there were originally 64 wheels in the city. They’re still economically important after hundreds of years, though now they generate wealth by attracting tourists rather than grinding wheat.The shopping gods smiled on Lauren, who found gifts for friends and family. After the requisite stop for café au lait and warmth, we returned to our cars.For lunch, we stopped between towns at l’Estellan, which was a random stop and a real stroke of luck. All of us agreed that it was the best meal we’d had yet in France. I had pumpkin soup, chicken, and mashed potatoes. Food was just perfect. As we sat there, we saw that the restaurant was recommended in all of our guidebooks. Based on its location, we also suspect that l’Estellan was the restaurant that Patrice was trying to recommend, but whose name he couldn’t remember. So it was fate that we landed there, I guess.The next stop was the beautiful village of Gordes, a real “city on a hill” that reminded all of us of Gondor from the Lord of the Rings movies. There wasn’t much to do except marvel at the countryside below and the white walls above, but this was exactly what we’d come to do, after all.Finally, we journeyed on to Roussillon, another hillside town whose soul seemed tied to the ochre beneath it. We stood wrapped in rouge: sunset, city, and hill. Beautiful.Lauren was so excited that she celebrated with her new favorite: a Nutella crepe.

From there, we drove back home. Having no dinner plan, intimidated by the cold and dark outside, and frankly sick of driving, we decided to return to House Pizza, the bumpin’ pizza place across the street. Lauren, Sam, and I took care of business, securing 4 thin-crust pizzas for the household and enjoying the company of all 5 young people in Alleins while we waited.

Provence travel log 2006-12-28 (Lauren)

Gordes perches on the edge of the white cliffs like a city of stories ~ tall and white and proud. Her stones glow in the glory of the afternoon sun, her face turned towards the blaze. It is the stately gaze of a warrior searching for signs of danger that might threaten a beloved land.

She overlooks the intermingled fields of wine vines and olive trees, and her brow is fair and serene.

* * *

Along the road to Rousillon, a line of old trees stands at attention. They reach and arc over the highway with spreading branches, trunks thick and sturdy and fingers bared by the cold.

Looking beyond these stout trees, I see groves of smaller olive trees planted in neat rows. They are lighter in color to the harsh, hearty brown and greens of the larger highway trees and have managed to cling to their leaves despite the cold.

The slender trunks disappear into the ground, and as I lean closer I realize that each cluster of trees is not one single plant but instead a collection of a few. Their feet firmly set into the ground, they lean back as if caught in one frozen moment of a ring dance ~ four or five girls whose reckless circling has caused their hair to fly outwards and their dresses to swirl around them ~ hands clasped tightly to one another's in order to prevent them from flinging themselves to the ground.

I think of Gina. And Nayelli.