Amongst the Ruins - 12 April 2011
12th April 2011
After an easy two and a half hour drive from TSL we arrived in Arles yesterday in time for lunch, which was perhaps the first non-descript meal we’ve had since we’ve been in Provence. The waiter however was quite descript: either he was on coke or he had a ripe cold, constantly snorting and sniffing, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, which he then used to pour our water. There are times when a lack of imagination would be welcome. But it got us out on to the streets in a hurry and what streets.
I won’t go into the history, it’s not what I do and its readily available on the internet, but history abounds here, whether it’s from the Amphitheatre dated 1st Century AD – that’s right, a mere 2000 years old – and holding 20,000 spectators – forget Madison Square Garden – to Vincent Van Gogh. And it is the physical remains of all this history that is so comforting. Really, I came out of a cathedral and sat on the sunny steps looking across the square to more ancient buildings and I thought, well, if this has all survived this long, through all its tribulations and pestilence, maybe this poor old world can survive a little longer.
We sit in the ruins of the Roman theatre – even older than the Amphitheatre – and read that comedies and burlesque were especially appreciated by the audience. I can’t help thinking Mel Brooks must have brought the house down.
We have an ice-cream sundae. We watch a class of 8 year-olds excitedly working on an art project while sitting on the ground that Roman solders marched on. We aimlessly wander the labrynthian streets, knowing we can’t get lost, which allows for timeless exploration – destination unknown. We buy an old piece of handspun cloth. We watch the locals, carrying briefcases or shopping baskets – and of course, baguettes – and realize what it is we’ve come to love about all these old towns: the French love them. More than that they treasure and respect their history. It is natural for them to live modern life amongst the ruins and ancient dwellings. Every corner you turn you get another glimpse of breathtaking houses, raddled stone, crumbling pillars, faded shutters, plants growing out of every crevice, laundry hanging from a a window. There is no conformity, no straight lines or grids, no street wider than a wagon, only centuries of tradition.
We wander back to our hotel, The Hotel D’Arlatan which deserves a mention. A 15th Century residence built on 4th Century ruins, still visible through a glass floor, it is a rambling pile of a building. Our room faces out onto a quiet courtyard, the kind space that has me thinking I could write a novel there. Our room, actually a small site, has stone walls, beams, shuttered windows and a red clay tile floor. The bed is comfortable, the furniture homey and breakfast generous.
It’s evening and I lie on the bed looking at the tiled roof across the courtyard. Clumps of yellow flowers stir in the breeze and a tiny bird, the same color as the mustard lichen on the tiles, flits in and out of its nest in the eaves. All else is silent.
I catch up with some writing while Joel downloads photographs. We talk of our deep pleasure and our gratitude to Barnes & Noble for bringing us here, and then we stroll down the street to a restaurant which instinct tells us is the one. And so it is. Le Brin de Thym – a sprig of thyme – which seems an apt metaphor for one’s life. We share two medallions of fois gras, which we spread on crusty baguette along with fig preserve. Then Joel has an Aoli which arrives looking like a carnival: his plate consists of fish, a little bowl of escargot with a boiled potato serving as a pin cushion for the escargot pick, a hard boiled egg, cauliflour, beets and 3 carrots cooked whole, a large tomato, chick peas and, of course, the aioli sauce. My dish is visually demure by comparison but not by taste. I have pave of veau, basically a fillet mignon of veal in a sauce of cepes – the mushrooms famous in this area - a little dish of veggies and a frisee salad. The boiled potatoes, in their skins, are the best I’ve tasted outside of Ireland. We share a nougat glace drizzled with warm honey. The whole meal eaten outside as the last of the day’s light fades into night, the moon full of promise.