Day 101. Arles. Nov 15. 2001

For a day in which we woke, still tired, for a day in we passed by the Roman amphitheater with a dismissive wave because our minds were too numb to care, we have seen more than I ever thought possible.

Arles woke us with a grey coldness and the typical hostel breakfast. After days of inadequate sleep we were eager to return to beds. But despite purchasing another nights rest we were evicted during the 10-5 closing period. We set out to explore Arles, the Roman city of Arelate, with drooping eyelids.

We climbed the main streets back to the centre of town, to the town hall and the church of La Cathedrale Saint Trophime with its adjoining cloister. The cathedral's great gates are an ornate masterwork, smooth stone statues in a gentle curvature, with mythical beasts over the lintels. the inside of the church does not equal the exterior but it is a nice place to sit and rest. There is a large collection of relics, a grisly display of spiritual wealth. The bones of St. Roch, St. Etienne and many others all in gilded casks. Many have small holes in which the faithful can insert a finger and touch a bit of holiness.

The cloister next door looked intriguing, but we weren’t really interested in paying. We climbed the streets towards the arena, past the amphitheater where again we are not too interested in paying. Our minds are too numb to appreciate beauty or history. We circled the arena but did not go in. We wander aimlessly and wait for the hostel to open again so that we can go back to our beds. And then we stumble on the Cryptoportiques.

Unsure of what they are we enter the building with the sign, an ancient abandoned church with only the altar remaining. The sanctuary is deserted, only a staircase leading down and a small booth to pay. We buy the pass to the city and embark on an adventure. We descend the staircase, down, down below the level of the streets, beneath homes and sewers and layers of rock. We emerge from the staircase in a dark, damp and musty tunnel, twenty feet below ground. Rows of arches split the tunnel in two and at the junction of the stairs it turns a sharp right angle to disappear into the darkness.

Arles is on a hill. When the Romans made it a colony after it aided Julius Caesar against Pompey, it required a forum. The Romans leveled out the land around the hill by building a massive basement, where we now stood. The cave was eerily silent and the light, only provided by slits to the forum above, was a pale yellow light that illuminated nothing. We followed the tunnels beneath houses and hotels, an enormous artificial cavern of darkness.

The far side had once opened on to the side of the hill, to the backs of roman shops that catered to Roman material needs and the great basement had served as a subterranean highway for goods and horses that weren’t wanted in the city streets. The caverns were bare and damp smelled of age. They spoke of ancient confidence and ability to build whatever was required. The Romans never fail to impress.

But beneath the deepest basement of the Hotel De Ville our imaginations began to run away with our minds. Heather remembered the Balrog the Dwarves unearthed when they delved too deep beneath the earth, while lovecraftian horrors from the Mountains of Madness nagged at the back of my mind. We left quickly.

But, whether by the excitement of exploring or the desire to get our money’s worth from our tickets, we had a renewed vigor. We returned to the cloister of St. Trophime. From deep beneath Arles we climbed to a garden secluded above the city. The cloister was beautiful, and secreted away from the wind, very warm. The carvings were smooth and full of energy and the stone seats were inviting but if we had not bought the tick for the whole package it would have been an entrance we regretted.

From the cloister we returned to the arena. The arena belonged to the cats of Arles and they basked against ancient stone seats as the wind raged outside of the ancient arched walls. Gently curving corridors circled the building and we followed them around in wide circles. Two dogs roamed the upper stories and we passed them many times in our rounds. They seemed lost and unable to find their way back to the ground but they seemed to enjoy their explorations even as they lost themselves deeper into the arena.

We climbed to the rooftops where three strange, very non-roman towers loomed. The exposed tops of the Roman arches rolled away from us in an endless series of stone waves. We entered the towers and looked down on the city below us. Hotels and apartments, crammed together, made red islands of roof tiles beneath us.

When the Empire collapsed those living in the ruins were faced by with the loss of technologies and the waves of invasions. They had a unique solution. Not trusting their ability to fortifications and not having enough money or manpower to build them anyway. They retreated to the structures the Romans left behind. The arena became the new city. Protective towers were erected. The arches were divided into apartments and a city was erected on the arena floor. Even now the windows and the doors of the middle ages could still be seen. How far the world fell. The arena city speaks of a terror and a loss so complete it is hard to imagine.

We left the arena and followed the streets back to the medieval gate at the entrance to the city. We passed the intersection where Vincent Van GoghMaison Jaune.” Paved over now by a new roundabout.

The quay over the Rhones edge, where the Romans has once raised a bridge of boats and Van Gogh’s fevered vision has wandered, was a filthy mess with bricks crumbling and moss covering all. The baths of Constantine were not much better, obviously not a priority for the town. We picked our way among the rubble with hesitant footsteps. The walls seemed to decay around us.

From the baths we returned to the Amphitheater in the shadow of the arena. Little was left of an amphitheater that could at one time hold 10 000. The walls were gone, the upper levels, the stages settings that had risen 3 stores above the town in a series of columns and statutes that must have been amazing. All that was left were two pillars and a piles of intricately carved and absolutely beautiful rubble. Here school children scrambled over the ruins and hid in secret niches for a forbidden cigarette far from the prying eyes of the teachers.

I wondered what plays had unfolded on the long vanished stage. Oedipus? Antigone? The Medea? Amateur performances of poetry and local auteurs that had failed and were lost to history? Flocks of pigeons blocked the sun and wind howled where once a chorus had sung. No deus ex machine had saved this theater from the ravages of time. We left feeling the weight of years.

We walked out of the city in a long walk to the ugly buildings of the Museum of Antiquity. Blue panels on a concrete triangle that seemed the epitome of bad architecture. Falling away in the gray starkness of a concrete pit were the remains of the Roman circus, the curving apex of the racetrack. The rest disappeared beneath roads and marshland.




The inside of the museum was a completely different story than the outside. Here we found one of the richest and most complete museums of antiquity we had yet seen. The towering, heavily muscled statue of Augustus from the the destroyed amphitheater at the apex, the museum fell away in the smooth geometric lines of a triangle. You begin in the prehistoric period but rapidly move into Arelate, Roman Arles. There are beautiful carven marble heads, Augustus, Tiberius, Hadrian, Caius and Lucius Caesar. There is a great augustan shield of marble and the intricate relief carvings of sarcophagi.


But it is the stories of everyday life that most fascinate. Lead pipes by the dozen, keys to locks crumbled to rust, most fairly conventional but many on rings in a style I have begun to associate with the grandeur of Rome. Objects for primping and preening that have not changed in 2000 years of history, especially tweezers. There are mock ups of the major areas of town, forum, circus, arena, which help visualize the scale of the structures on which we stood. And there was the most impressive collection of mosaics yet. Europa abducted by Zeus, an homage to Triton, the allegory of the seasons in small bits of colored tile. Most are damaged but some are impressively intact. Telling stories to the descendants of the descendants of those who sacked Rome. There is so much to see. The few preserved remains of the 28 000 wooden pilings that form the base of the circus, the shattered head of a marble child.

One exhibit that caught my eye is the remains from the hydraulic mill of Barbegal, a flour mill that ran down a hillside and was powered by twenty waterwheels. With one structure enough grinding was done in one mill to feed the entire population of Arles.

Arles sat on a crossroads of trade, the Via Domitia, the Via Agrippa and Aurelian Way all pass through the city. The Rhone with it’s cargoes of rich wines bathes the banks, the camargue plains region teems with sheep and bulls. The legacy of ruins and structures and a pervading sense of history that Romans left Arles is a powerful one indeed.

When we finally left the museum and headed back towards our humble lodgings for the night we were more tired than I thought possible. But still we have found time to follow the small yellow tiles inset in the concrete to the sanitarium of Arles where Van Gogh spent some of his time. The Garden, sheltered from the wind and rain in the courtyard of the hospital, was untouched by the ravages of weather and was beautiful in the depths of November. The hospital was clean and crisp and exuded a sense of health. But whet, I wonder would Van Gogh make of the shops that had replaced the wards, ship-owners the doctors and tourists the sick? 

Previous Entry: Day 100. Arles

Day 100. Arles. Nov 14 2001.

I began to wonder If there was not, perhaps, some sort of problem in Avignon. Yesterday as we walked we saw more genetically damaged people than anywhere we had yet traveled. The streets had far more people exhibiting deformities, twisted arms and legs, wrenched feet and hands, that I believe I have seen in my entire life and everywhere we stopped it seemed that there was a person with some form of brain damage or mental handicap. Even as we left the campground the people working in the office seemed only modestly functional. Perhaps there is a hospital nearby and those out and about are part of a program to reintegrate them into society.

The hard part of the day's trip begins at once. We had to leave Avignon by a small southbound highway. We followed the road around the city all right but after what seemed like hours of pedaling and fighting unsympathetic traffic we found ourselves on the road to the autoroute. Definitely not where we want to be. The wind was not helping, pushing us into the paths of oncoming traffic. We backtracked and, after another hour in the chaos, found our exit. For some reason it was not sign posted from our original direction. 

Heather has announced that the cycling portion of our trip is drawing to a close. After much discussion I convinced her that we must bike to Marseilles before we well and truly decide but the chaos of this morning did little for the cause of biking.

But the ride outside of Avignon was almost ridiculously easy. At times the Mistral pushed us with such force that we didn't have to pedal to reach our top speeds. If it was always like that then the whole world would be on bicycles.

The landscape became very rocky and promontories of white stone thrust skyward with unexpected power. The maps shows only a small rise and green forests but the hills seem to be living things rearing from the land with vengeful fury. At one point the railway tracks the road follows cleave though the middle of a small but steep hill and it suddenly looks for all the world as if a massive Faberge egg had been folded back to reveal the miniature trail within.

The land began to level out after that and soon we were on grass flats that rippled and swayed to the wind we couldn't feel as it pushed us along. There seemed to be castles spreading from every hillside and I realized that this will be the thing I miss most when we return home, the sense of history surrounding you whether you visit everything or not.

I am happy that we have reached our hundredth day. We have been in Europe as long as Napoleans failed return to power lasted. “The Hundred Days” his return is derogatorily called to emphasize its ephemeral nature. But a hundred days seem like eternity to us. I look back in this journal and even things ten days ago seem hopelessly out dates. England seems like a lifetime ago and Canada a fevered dream of the mystic who believes in reincarnation.

We reached Arles faster than expected. We arrived before noon and coasted into the city in bewildred amazement. The youth hostel was closed for the afternoon, from ten until five. Neither of us was in any mood to explore the city and we are both tired. The coldness of the day grows and once we are no longer moving we feel the cold as the bitter bite of a million tiny needles. We wrapped ourselves in jackets and mitts and as much clothes as will fit and still we were cold. We waited and we waited. Time passed at a snails pace and by the time the hostel opened we were frozen and almost beyond caring.

We stood mute in the entrance for long minutes while the old woman who runs the place looked at us impatiently. Finally the warmth seems to thaw our frozen brains enough and we get a room for the night. We are led to a room with a leaking radiator and we remembered with a sudden laugh that Chantal, from Nimes, and her boyfriend had complained that they were forced to stay in a room with a leaking radiator in Arles. This then must be their room.

This time our hostess notices and leads us to a dorm upstairs that we have to ourselves. It is cold but the blankets are plentiful and thick and warm. We turn the radiator on full and pile beneath the blankets. We are tired. Too tired. We do very little this night.

I have begun to worry in recent days. I wish for my journal to be so much more than a record of places and dates, an index for the inevitable photos. I want to paint pictures with words and bring us back in all our later incarnations to the travelers that we are now and to what we now experience. But I am so exhauseted by the time that I set pen to paper that my mind is numb and the least desire of my heart is to search for adequate words. All I can do is a mechanical recitation of facts and figures, places and things. The only witness to the beauty we have seen is photographs after all. 

Next Entry: Day 101. Arles
Previous Entry: Day 99. Avignon Continued.

Day 99. Avignon Continued. Nov 13. 2001

We wandered away from the church and found food, then climbed the Rocher Des Doms to eat our lunch.

The Rocher is the rocky headland that breaks the path of the Rhone River and sends it twisting and writhing southwards. It was the acropolis of prehistoric Avignon man, the watchtower of the Popes, the industrial windmill park of the Middle Ages and now a lush green garden that sways in the wind.

We looked over the edges and saw medieval Avignon at our feet, the modern city lost to the distance. We looked to the north and see the wild Rhone tamed by tiers of dams. The Fort Saint Andre spreads its angry fortification across a nearby hill and the riches of Villeneuve, where the cardinals made their homes, climb out across the Rhone hillsides. The wind is too much and soon we were forced from the heights, picking grit from between our teeth.

We descended long stairs and spiraling ramps out of the garden. The helpful and cheery park workers urinate in the bushes at the approach of sightseers as if to provide the perfect snapshot of the French Atmosphere.

We made our way through the maze of streets to the base of the Pont Saint Benezet. Benezet was a local shepherd who heard the voice of god command that he descend to Avignon and cause to be erected a great bridge. France and the Papal states would eventually be separated only by the Rhone River and only cities with bridges could become sites of international importance so God was obviously planning ahead. Benezet descended to the town and proclaimed his dream to the assembled faithful during a festival. The crowd laughed and taunted Benezet. The local bishop demanded that Benezet prove he came at the command of God and lay as the bridges first stone an enormous piece of masonry left over from the building of the Cathedral. Without hesitating, we are told, Benezet lifted the rock and placed it in the river. The bridge was finished in the year 1185.

Benezet did not participate in the actual construction of the bridge; the placards describe him as “Not a technical man, but a grand fund raiser and motivator.” The art of building bridges had been lost with the Romans and Benezet founded a Brotherhood of the Bridge, men of God whose mission was to study bridges, including the Pont Du Garde, and recreate one in Avignon. The men lived and died on the bridge and it was their sacred mission to maintain it. Benezet eventually travelled to Rome then returned and built a bridge in Lyon. He was renowned for healing those injured in bridge building. There is a chapel to him beneath the second span of the bridge.

The Bridge of Avignon soon gained a dangerous reputation, for in winter it would ice over and the mistral winds would blow crossers to the water below. It sounds almost funny but it was true. There where no railings and we were almost lifted off by the incredible force of the winds. With ice it would have been a death trap.

Most of the bridge is gone, washed away by tidewaters and floods. Only the smallest nub of the Avignon side remains. The Rhone proved too much despite the flood channels opened in every span. As each span collapsed wood planking was extended until finally too much was gone. The bridge had been a source of contention between the French crown and the Popes over who owned it, but no one wanted to pay the cost of upkeep. Interestingly the river belonged to the king and he taxed the residents of the shore when it flooded. Nice guy.

The bridge proved to be a benefit to the citizen of Avignon in that the ruins provided a place for the sediments to drop out of the river and form an island. It was here, among the bridge’s ruins that a popular café sprang up with lively dancing.

“Under the bridge of Avignon we’re all dancing.” Sur and Sous. On and Under. With the passage of time the words got confused and the song changed from dancing "Under the Bridge" to "Dancing on the Bridge".

So, in complete ignorance of the history involved, Heather and I danced a lively but very short reel above a busy street on the shore of the Rhone.

We returned via the drawbridge and portcullis that led to the Castle of the Bridge and then onto the walls of the city. Behind us was the ancient hospital where the Brotherhood of the Bridge ministered to those traumatized both physically and spiritually by their river crossing.

We descended from the wall through the Tower of the Dogs and returned to our less than pleasant campground. The wind was, if it can be imagined, worse than ever and our night was a nightmare of wind and roaring waves of air. The floor of the tent would inflate with every gust and threaten to carry off the whole structure. We did not sleep well, in fact hardly at all and by the time the Sun rose we were too exhausted to move. If we could have stood another night in the campground, or another night exposed to the mistral we would have happily slept. As it was we packed up and began the difficult trip to Arles.

Next Entry: Day 100. Arles
Previous Entry: Day 99. Avignon.

Day 99. Avignon. Nov 13 2001

Sur le pont d'Avignon

On the bridge of Avignon

On y danse, tous en rond

We awoke early, the Mistral driving us from our bed, and we crossed the short walk into the old walled town of Avignon. The walls were intact, their crenellated barrier separating old Avignon from the progress of time. Great towers peered out, ancient sentries whose old foes had disappeared long ago, remembered only as names in books, if even that. The walls were a mythical barrier and crossing them transported us through time to an era of grandeur and strife. An era when the Popes were not safe, even in Rome, when crossing a river was a phenomenal challenge.

We made our way through a labyrinth of streets to the grey shell of the Popes Palace, a windswept square before it. We entered the Hall of Dignitaries beneath two turrets. The ancient entrance was closed, the wood and iron bands decaying and rays of light piercing through.

Avignon had become the Papal residence when Clement V grew weary of wandering about Europe but was too afraid to settle in Rome. In 1309, the year of his arrival, Avignon was part of the Papal States, a separate entity from the Kingdom of France across the Rhone River. The location was also better for the spiritual Lords of Europe, at a crossroads between France, Spain and Italy, the strongest nations in Christendom. But from the moment of their arrival the Popes began efforts to return to Rome. The histories say that without the aura of power cast by the Eternal City the Popes were worried about their legitimacy but I think it had more to do with a desire to escape the Mistral.

The Courtyard of Honor was a paved square between the old palace, built at the command of Benedict XII, and the newer palace of Clement VI. It was a cold grey ugliness between cold grey and ugly walls. We hurried along the tour to the Treasury Hall. The Upper Treasury Hall, where the Pope's accountants would keep their record books, was full of displays. The coins of the realm, models of the Palace, the faces of the Popes. Of particular interest was the small display consisting of all the things that people would throw at the Popes while they were in residence in Avignon. From rocks, to catapult ammunition, spears and ballista bolts. The exhibit of the skull and the corresponding spear that was removed when the body was exhumed speaks volumes about the nature of theological disputes.

But it was the empty Lower Treasury that really caught our attention. A lager square stone chamber, only poorly lit, with uneven rock tiled floor. It was not very imposing. One could imagine racks of papal treasure here, walls dripping with gold and jewels. But it was under the floors where the real action was. The floor of the treasury was a disguise. It looked perfectly solid. Rock slabs resting against the rocks of the hills you could see outside. But underneath rectangular slabs a foot thick was the Pope's secret hoards of money. Without the audio guide and the slabs pried up in demonstration there would have been no way to know.

Above the treasuries was the Jesus Hall, an unimpressive room so named because of the X symbols on the wall.

From here we walked to the Consistory Hall, a long chamber filled with the relics of destroyed paintings. Paintings that had been slashed, punctured or beaten or that had merely rotted away with age in an unexplained display of artistic carnage.

We hurried into the upper cloister, then up a flight of stairs to the Grand Tinel. The Grand Tinel was the great dining hall of the Popes, a vast hall that echoed now to the footsteps of tourists. Here Popes and Cardinals and royal guests had dined beneath colorful tapestries. Strict etiquette applied and the Pope tested every meal with the liberal application of unicorn horns and sharks teeth to magically detect poisons. He also sat alone on a high dais overlooking the assembled faithful. It must be lonely to be Pope.

Here, in a bricked over arch hidden in one corner of the room, was the entrance to the Conclave. At the death of every Pope the wall was smashed in and the College of Cardinals sequestered behind iron bars, fed like prisoners through an iron grate in the wall until they decided on the

new Pope. Great incentive to choose quickly.

Behind the Grand Tinel was the tour of the kitchen. Instead of a fireplace the tower narrowed at the centre to a small aperture. Food was roasted on a great fire in the centre of the room, burning the flagstones on the floor.

Fire devastated the Palace of the Popes in 1431.

We descended into a bleak undecorated square of cold stone, the Chapelle Saint Martial. It is here that the Popes announced at Easter who was to be the recipient of the Golden Rose, a rose in solid gold with a sapphire gem. The recipient was to be the greatest Christian that year had produced. Here too he announced the recipient of the sword, belt and hat at Christmas, an even greater honor. But the glory left with the Popes. Now the room is merely dark and cold.

Finally we entered the Popes chamber, a dark blue room overgrown with intertwining vines and colonized by birds and squirrels, all in the paintings that decorate every wall. The Popes, it appears, loved captive birds, so much so that they painted their walls with them. The room is darkly beautiful. As beautiful as the Popes bedroom is, so too is the next one strange, the Stag Room. A large room decorated with the purely secular themes of the woodland hunt. Streams pour from the walls while trees reach for the ceiling. Men chase deer and haul fish from a pond while children cavort through the wilds. In one corner a pair of rabbits mates.

We exited to the Popes Balcony on which he could stand and bestow his blessings to the privileged few who filled the Courtyard of Honour on festival days. To our left was the Tour De La Gauche and we climbed it to the rooftops. Here the Papal guards mounted their watch each night, more to detect fires in the city than to discover the enemies that might be sneaking up to attack Avignon. The Mistral howled amidst the gothic sculptures and leering gargoyles. We fought our way to the terrace to peer down on the city but the wind ripped at us as we peered between the crenelations.

We returned to the Popes balcony and descend the Staircase of Honor to the great audience hall. A room as long as the great chapel, vaulted ceilings of bare rock. In one vault in the far corner the remains of a frescoe by Matteo Giovanni, painter to the Pope. The Palace of the Popes has been like great skeletal remains, abandoned by its mother church. Great events transpired here but when the Popes left they took with them the heart and soul of these buildings. All that remains is the dead bones, the calcified arteries and veins and organs of a colossal giant. But it is empty and it is cold.

We climbed to the neigbouring Cathedral Notre Dame des Doms. A glittering golden Mary, crowned by a halo of stars, looked down on us from her heights. The wind howled past her with blasphemous demonic fury. A couple was lost in each other charms beneath the Cathedral's cross and a poor man begged in the doorway beneath the riches. Life rolls ever on.

The church was magnificent, a dark grotto on a windy day. Dark niches line the walls, a faint beam of light descends from above on the altar, a crimson Bishops Chair is recessed into the wall, looking at the Popes Door from which the Popes emerged.

The statues of saints and holy figures are more sumptuous here than anywhere else, their vestments gleam in yellow light, bronze or gold I don’t know, but it is obvious that the Papal presence elevated this place above many others.

There is a concession shop next to the church, glass doors opening onto the sanctuary. There are faithful here but there are more tourists, who dig out money to buy pictures or chocolate bars. I cannot help but wonder what the Christ who overturned the stalls of the money changers in the temple would made of this new permutation of capitalism.

Next Entry:Day 99. Avignon Continued
Previous Entry: Day 98. Avignon

Day 98. Avignon. Nov 12 2001.

The Day of Bridges.

The morning dawned blue and still, the rain clouds drained, the Mistral exhausted. We woke reluctantly and dressed even more so. We rescued our bikes from the dank garage in which they had rested from the past few days and loaded up.

The ride down the hill from the Auberge was a slick glide of effortless descent that saw us to the door of the nearest market, the last effortless moment of the day. We gathered our food and ate breakfast in the Jardin De La Fountain. Children on a field day crowded the beautiful lanes of plants and groaned as they were made to run laps around the 18th century fountain. If there is a better way to make children hate history I can't imagine it.

We left Nimes down a long broad avenue, the sides lined with trees, the centre occupied by a lively market selling everything from used clothing to amusement park rides. There was an elegant pyramid erected in the central park, flanked by two stone men holding stone rifles eroded with age, a monument to the martyrs of the French resistance, gleaming bright and cold in the November morning. Behind it, rising high on a pedestal of glory that threatened to reignite old diatribes was “La Taureau,” a proud statue of a defiant bull raising his head and horns to the sky. The pamphlet for the town of Nimes regally declared the Bull to be the true king of France. Based on the way the French treat their kings…

But no, I expressed myself on this subject yesterday and the day before.

We cycled out of Nimes and into a blasted hell of jagged rocks, rising hills and wind. A hurricane of air swept over us, around us, through us, making every inch of land a twisted epic of battling muscles and raging elements. The rocks here were pure white that leered skeletally from open cliff faces and roadside verges. A bare and stark castle rises to our left, an extension of the pale earth. We slowly inch up the curving roadside and somehow, impossibly, find ourselves looking down a long hill into a deep valley. Surely we cannot have climbed so high? But we look forward to the joy of descent, the unfettered rolling of wheels down a long gentle slope. We are disappointed. The wind has become so strong that we have to fight our way downhill, peddling like mad to gain even a modicum of momentum, which is stolen away by gusts of wind even as we struggle.

I begin to get angry; our one method of relaxing while biking has been stolen from us. But then the valley closes in around us, the trees shelter us from the worst of the wind and a cathedral silence begins to descend. Something awesome approaches. The bridge is visible only as arches through the trees at first, a span here, cut off by an overhanging branch and a cluster of leaves. Another span over there, impossibly distant, too far for them to belong to the same structure. The leaves and trees thin slowly, revealing span after span, arch after arch until with a sudden shock of exposure it appears in its entirety.

The Pont Du Gard.

52 arches of delicate filigree spanning the Gardon Valley. 50 400 tons of rock. A monumental construction of astonishing beauty. Built around 50AD during the reign of the emperor Claudius, the Pont du Gard aqueduct was built to supplement the flow of Nimes' holy spring with 400 liters of water a second. It was never meant to be beautiful, but it is.

Each span is impossibly wide. The whole structure unbelievably high. You cannot believe that it is older than the oldest government still in existence, older than almost any building you can find. It seems so delicate that the slightest push will send it tumbling into the valley below. We climb the steps that lead under the first set of aches. There is a solemnity standing beneath the bridge, as though you stand under a grand religious edifice. We climb to the second span and follow the footbridge across.

We follow the rocky hillside upwards to the arches that led to the water regulators. All are gone now, evidenced only by deep cavities in the dirt. We descend and cross back after exploring the far bank for awhile. There is an olive tree planted near the aqueduct that began life in 908 and was brought from Spain. It seems impossibly ancient and yet it is 850 years younger than the bridge.

We climb the other side of the bridge to the topmost arcade, high above the valley floor.

The aqueduct is locked off, fear of tourists preventing easy access but you can stand in the depths through which the water coursed and you can see the stone lids that prevented evaporation.

Behind us is a tunnel through the mountainside, dug in 1863 as the beginning of an attempt to return the aqueduct to working order. The Roman aqueduct curves around the mountain to the left. We cut through the tunnel and rejoined the watercourse on the other side, its passages filled with dirt now. We come unexpectedly upon the Pont de Valmala. One of the Pont Du Garde’s forgotten lesser brothers.

The aqueduct continues on, lost now beneath dirt and the roots of trees young by its standards, all the way to Nimes.

There is something about the faint ruins peering through the dirt that seems to lure you on, some ghostly liquid quality of water long vanished that entreats you to follow the course. With difficulty we resist and return to the valley of Gardon river. The aqueduct is difficult to leave. It is amazing in its scale, in its age, everything about it. We lunch in its shadow, hardly able to pull our eyes from it.

We must go and we tear ourselves away with effort. The Pont Du Gard recedes into the foliage once more, to rest majestically long after I, and this journal, fall into the unremembered dust of history.

The going is harder now, as if the bridge is drawing us back. We fight our way into the Mistral and up the hills that have become our burden. We are forced to climb, a long steep slope filled with angry drivers who were less than pleased to share the road. The climb went on forever, the mistral wind pushing us back with every advance and it does not relent even after we pass the hills crest and begin to descend. A long descent into Avignon cutting through cliffs and racing down a long bridge with a speed that makes our knuckles clench white.

We cross the Rhone into the city. One bridge of Avignon.

The Palace of the Popes becomes visible as a misshapen grey lump against the horizon, a glittering Mary looking down in gentle benediction. Then we are forced across the Rhone again to the flat shifting soil of the Isle de la Barthelasse. 2 bridges of Avignon.

Our campground is large, almost entirely abandoned. Moss grows in place of grass. The trees bend and dance beneath a wind that we hardly feel. The Pont De St. Benezet shattered by times and tides is clearly visible from the entrance. 3 bridges of Avignon. The bridge of Avignon.

We are too tired and too cold to dance. Instead we hurl ourselves into the tent sleep.

Next Entry: Day 99. Avignon
Previous Entry: Day 97. Nimes

Day 97. Nimes. Nov 11 2001

A day of rest.

Our disgust at the horrific carnage of the night before cast a pall over us for the rest of yesterday evening and it seemed to take so much of the beauty out of everything we had seen in Nimes. It was hard to reconcile such a beautiful city with such ugliness.

But it unfair to tar the whole city with the same brush. Nimes is a very beautiful place, a glistening city of marble and stairs. Oh the stairs. They have left a lasting impression on us, most especially in our calves.

The long sinuous curving stairs that cling to hills in the Jardin de La fountain, winding their way through vertical avenues lined with plane trees, impossibly green in the depths of November. Stairs that climbed over a waterfall that spiked into a small pond far below. When the stairs finally burst from under the trees to the base of the Tour Magna it was with a shock. The air had grown warm beneath the sheltering trees and now the cold assaulted us once more.

The great tower rose up like a monolith, impossibly white. The inside was alarmingly hallow, like a jar flipped upside down and scrapped clean by a child desperate to have every last taste of flavor. All that rose in the centre was a modern staircase of concrete, looking alien with it’s smooth spiraling contours in the rough brick of the tower. Climbing stairs became painful now, a strain on our legs and feet. The top, when it came, was a burst from the darkness to brilliant light and blowing air. The view, or the wind, was breathtaking.

Knowing the emptiness that was in the tower beneath us I was overcome by waves of vertigo even as I took in the landscape. I tumbled back against the wall and held the cables to the lightning rod that rose next to me and reflected on the irony of being electrocuted while worrying about the dangers of height. All that separated us from the gardens below was a thin lip of stone and a fatal drop. I cannot say now that I was sad to climb more stairs, this time down.

Next were the stairs of the Maison Carre, the building a testament in stone to so many of the reasons we came on this trip. Flawless white marble, chipped and stained by the passing eons, in a design so ancient and familiar that we almost felt compelled to drop to our knees and genuflect to gods long dead.

Then there were the stairs in the parks. The long singular staircase of Imperial faith leading to the sheltered sanctuary of the ancient temple, dedicated to Diana I have since discovered.

Then the short stairs that descended to spring of Nemausus itself, and exposed us to the source of all Nimes fountains.

Fountains abound, almost as much as stairs. The Jardin De La Fountain of course, but the Place D’Assas as well with it’s illusion of waters flowing uphill to fall in a cascade on a startled man while nearby a monolithic face spews water.

Or the Fountain Pradier with its cryptic name and nameless heads spewing forth a torrent of icy water that chilled to the bone.

Finally there are rough hewn wooden steps of the arena as well. Always today my mind is drawn back there. The pain and the suffering we saw has left me filled with words and yet speechless, filled with poetic rage and yet reduced to incoherent ranting. I write rants against the human race, filled with shame and despair for the future of our species. I am surprised by the depth and virulence of my own reaction.

But enough. Nimes has been a place of outstanding beauty and horror for us and I do not have the right words to describe the experience.

It has become cold and and the Mistral wind has picked up clouds of rain that turn the sky a sickly yellow. The small courtyard of the hostel is soaked and even racing to our evening meal has become a challenge. We will roll ourselves tight in our bunks and try to save as much of the radiators warmth as we can for the rest of the trip.

We have the room to ourselves tonight and it will be nice to be able to roll over without worrying that the creaks and groans of our bed will not awaken the room. Tonight I hope to sleep without dreams.

Next Entry: Day 98. Avignon
Previous Entry: Day 96. Nimes

Day 96. Nimes. Nov 10 2001.

The Day Of Bitter Winds.

A day of excitement, beauty and brutality so great it has shaken our faith in humanity.

The deathly winds of the Mistral clutched Nimes in icy talons, tearing at branches and shutters until the whole hillside howled in protest. We retraced our journey into the city slowly and explored the Jardin De La Fountaine with excited awe. The god Nemausus had raised a bubbling spring here and the Egyptian veterans of the Battle of Actium found welcome refuge beside his cool waters. The gardens were built over a series of canals that channeled water to the city, deep watery grooves in the earth.

Behind rose a veritable mountain of stairs topped by infinite greenery that hid the sloping hill from sight.

 
An ancient temple's ruins rose in a shadowed niche, crumbling ruins to an unknown god trapping the crescent moon of the morning between decaying stones.

We climbed the stairs to the shelter of trees and the howling of wind dropped to a quiet susurration of leaves, the sun beat down with no wind to cool it. We climbed crumbled stones paths until we slipped from the shadow of trees to the shadow of Nimes Great Tower. The tower of Roman Nimes rose from the highest of seven hills, a warning to would be conquerors and a beacon marking the gushing waters below. The tower rose 30 meters above us on the top of the hill, a white shard of antiquity gleaming almost painfully in the sun.

We climbed it’s two thousand and sixteen year old interior and looked out on a view that spanned all of Nimes and the country around it, gasping for breath in the heights. The towers innards were gone and our rarefied perch rested on a stairway built after an obscure Frenchman gutted the interior searching for a treasure prophesied by Nostradamus.

We returned to earth and the pleasure of the garden, walking a double spiral of labyrinthine hedges in delight. We hurried to the coliseum that we had seen the night before and we admired its grandiose arches the bespoke ancient power. But it was closed today for the Corrida and we bought tickets, excitedly eager to see a cultural event renown for its beauty. Then we retraced our steps through the town, back into the mazelike streets of the city’s market district, everything stamped with the city emblem of crocodile and palm tree.

Then we found the temple. The Square House of Nimes, One thousand nine hundred and ninety eight years old. Perfect Corinthian columns supporting ancient roofing tiles raised to cover a sanctuary of the Imperial Cult. The temple was magnificent. The wind whistled between the fluted columns and bit deep beneath our layers of clothes.

Our final sightseeing stop was the Castellum, the distribution tank of the in rushing water from the ancient aqueduct which ran over the Pont Du Gard. The pipes sending water throughout the ancient Roman city were still visible and although it was mostly a pit in the ground it was still a practical working part of Roman life. That more than temple or coliseum or ancient towers brought the dead to life for me.

We returned through the tiny medieval streets, a thousand colorful storefronts opening their doors and spilling their wares out into the cobblestone paths invitingly. The wind howled overhead, angry at the protection afforded mortals by the canyons of stone. We gave in to the cold and the invitations of the street merchants and bought gloves for our frozen hands. Then to the Arena for the Corrida.

It was exciting to line up with the rest and know that the arena was being used for something approaching it’s original purpose. Our hearts raced as the adrenaline surge of the crowd rushed over us. People waved happily to one another while the band played and vendors danced along the ancient roman railings, tossing peanuts and chips to the crowd and deftly catching coins tossed their way. The intensity built as we waited until the stones seemed to throb with impatience. The doors opened and the players walked to the sands. There were the matadors, their assistants, men in armor on armored and blindfolded horses and wagoneers with heavy horses and chains. They filed off the sand and took refuge in the wings and waited for the bullfight to begin. The music blared and it started.

The spectacle began in beauty. The expanse of sands, a long blast of familiar music and the powerful fury of the charging bull taking to the arena. The swirling flowers of color made as the man danced around the deadly thrust of horn or the heavily muscled bulk of head and neck. The soft, indrawn whisper of Ole as the beast surged majestically around the man.

Then the slaughter began.

The poetry of the corrida tells of the meeting between man and beast. It tells of the struggle between mind and muscle and the beauty of the dance of death.

The poetry of the corrida is a diseased lie told by those who gorge themselves on feasts of blood and agony. The songs that are sung say nothing of torture and torment, of enraging an innocent beast over and over again, so he is driven to a froth of exhaustion, nothing of spears thrust into writhing muscles and tender flesh to destroy the strength of a bewildered animal. Those who praise the arena and the masculine strength of the matador speak only softly of the darts flung into the back of a beast who cannot understand what is happening. Barbs of pain to snap a mind already at its bestial limits with terror, barbs that drain strength in spasms of frantic energy as the beast tries to free itself from agony. And nothing is ever said of a beast too exhausted to move, to stand, collapsing in a pathetic mewling heap on sand stained with its own blood, while the savage crowd boos the poor sport. Not even in whispers is it told of the shame of desperate matadors, trying to drag their ravaged prey to its feet with angry tugs on it’s tail, until they are almost dragging the beast around the sands by its ass. Advocates of blood sport don’t discuss the confusion and terror on the face of a dying bull, understandable even across the gap of species that separates us. They speak not of torment and torture. They say the matador faces a dying bull alone, ignoring the men who distract it with fluttering capes because the matador is too frightened of the savage mess of blood and agony he has created. They don't speak of a beast so wounded that it is vomiting, pissing and shitting blood across the sand. And no one ever, ever, talks about the bull falling to its side and a terrified little man thrusting a dagger deep into its skull and pureeing its brains while it spasms across the sand in it’s death throes.

We rose and left after the second bull, unable to bear the shame of being human any longer. My awe for the beauty of the stadium dissolving in a rush of disgust and humiliation that my species should be the perpetrators of such sadistic crimes. That crowds should cheer it!

A guard sneered as we left and proclaimed that “There is always one that can’t take it.” He cannot know that my heart pleads that such should be the case, that somewhere people know shame.

Next Entry: Day 97. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 95. Nimes

Day 95. Nimes. Nov 9 2001.

The Day of Friendly Voices.

We woke to rain. We had woken every few minutes through the night, worried about time and the rising tide of water that threatened our sanctuary.

We dressed in layers and cycled back the long road into Bordeaux. The day was painfully cold and our small biking gloves did nothing to shield our fingers. We passed a clock that read out the time and temperature. 2 degrees and only an hour until our train left. We hurried. When we reached train station's welcoming bulk, its clock reading out a different time, two and a half hours to wait.

The train rolled into the station early, a gray series of bread-loaf cars, cold and metallic, the seats like ordered lines of soldiers with backs still at attention. No sign guided us in loading the bikes or our vast pile of luggage. Finally a harried station worker lifted a metal gate and led us to the baggage car with silent impatience. We stacked our bikes and made them as secure as we could before finding our seats in a cubicle designed for eight.

The train rested in the station while others passed, loaded passengers and hurried away in a mechanical dance. Our luggage filled the overhead racks and the spaces beneath the seats. The train jerked into motion with an unexpected suddenness and we changed our seats quickly to face the direction of travel. We moved out of the yard slowly, past trains that rested in the quiet indignity of old age, grass high around metal wheels, a patina of graffiti staining once proud cars. We passed gleaming silver and blue TGV Trains already stained with the tags of would be artists.

We quickly gained speed and were abruptly out of the city and racing through the Aquitaine countryside. The Garonne River swam lazily beside us, growing cleaner as before our eyes as silt and pollution disappeared downstream. The train began to slow before it reached peak velocity and pulled in a station many days bike ride from Bordeaux. People bustled through the narrow corridors, intent on finding open spaces in cramped quarters. An old couple filed into our car, watching a bevy of youth file past them smoking foul cigarettes. The man was dark of skin with ruddy cheeks and a white beard, like Santa Claus after a diet. His wife seemed younger, but not by much, raven hair streaked with snow. In their hands they carried panniers much like ours. They wore biking clothes like we would have wished for. They sat and dug into dinner like engines starving for fuel. Even as they ate they began to speak to us. The sound of cheerful French voices as we passed along the banks of the Garonne, the spires of churches dotting the horizon will remain an indelible memory.

Raymond and Maesa were no longer young, but if youth is measured in vigor they will outlast the world. They cheerfully share their food and their company, delighting in my stuttering French and the fact that I tried at all.

The train began to fill. The corridors flickering as people filtered through at every stop. The train pulled into Toulouse and the chattering voices fell silent in contemplation of the great blast here not so long ago. But the heartbeat of the city goes on and today was Friday, Toulouse a university town. Students filled the train in their hundreds to journey home for the weekend. Our cabin filled with youth and vigor to match our conversation. Voices sounded out in French, English, Italian, and Spanish. A young French girl whispering endearments to her Italian lover while Raymond practiced his ancient Spanish. A pretty woman across from us buried her eyes in her English copy of Harry Potter while Maesa, Heather and I bantered in a patois of languages.

The countryside flattened in a broad plain between two rising waves of hills, the vegetation became sparse with grey rock peeking from beneath low scrub and grass. We pulled between two hills closer together, the buildings becoming thicker and suddenly a vision from a fairy tale beckoned from the distance. The crenellated walls of the medieval city of Carcassone.

Here Maesa and Raymond left us and a gentle silence descended, as if no one could match the energy lost and all hesitated to try. The people crowding the train grew in number until every seat was filled and the crowds began to spill into the corridors, clogging them like unhealthy arteries. The train began the long descent into the Mediterranean basin and, somewhere between Sets and Montepelier we glimpsed the fabled sea for the first time, a thin line of brilliant blue racing along the horizon. But though we came closer and closer to the ancient waters we never saw them directly again. Ships crowded industrial harbors, canals ran in rough waves out of view, but the sea was always lost to sight until we turned away and began to climb the Rhone Valley even as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

We scurried nervously out of our packed compartment to the luggage compartment beginning to worry about how we would transport our bikes. The cars were full, no room to move and though all were friendly our constant shuttling luggage back and forth began to wear on the patient smiles. We struggled to maneuver bikes in tight spaces, rubbing rubber tires against skin and losing more goodwill. Finally we pulled into Nimes. Other bikers wrenched open the door with powerful tugs and we dropped our bikes the meter to the pavement below. A chill wind raged through the tunnel to the station and the light began to dim.

Our connection Avignon appeared on none of the boards and seemed to have passed from the knowledge of bewildered station personnel until finally one calmed us by saying slowly, in patient tones “It has been delayed for two hours.” Not willing to wait and not ready to face the stress of reloading our bikes when our connection arrived two hours from now we agreed to forgo the rest of our journey and stay in Nimes.

We biked away from the station with trepidation in our hearts, but soon we passed the golden lit colosseum rising from the street in gracefully arched tiers that put the ruins of Saintes to shame and lulled us into a sense of security, We pedalled on past fountains that sprayed the road in the wind and graceful buildings that glittered under golden lights even as they vomited hordes of youths reveling in the freedom of a Friday night on the town. We passed the Roman Temple and the Garden of the Fountain, a beautiful city that left us eager to explore.

The hostel was high atop a hill and it took our last reserves of energy to push our heavy bikes up the slope. We were greeted at the hostel by music and by a cheerful ex-patriot Brit who demanded to be called Andy, On discovering our Canadian nationality he cheerfully assigned us to the “Canadian Room” where he had put the other Canadian couple he was hosting.

We waited in trepidation for our roommates to return from their exploration of Nimes, feeling like intruders in spaces they had claimed. Chantel and her boyfriend were Quebecois taking advantage of cheap prices to explore France. They were as delighted as Andy to find fellow Canadians sharing their rooms. We talked about everything from the separation question to their itineraries through France and found a deep and comforting camaraderie. Chantal barked short quick coughs in a sound so familiar to us from our sojourn in Talmont St. Hilaire and Heather sympathetically plied her with remains of our medicine. We talked into the late hours of the night as the wind howled outside.

Today has been a rarely social day, filled with long conversations with fellow travelers. All seemed delighted, energized by the chance to share stories and complaints and recommendations with those in similar circumstances. Everywhere today were quick smiles and helpful hands and words of advice. Each person seemed excited by the tales of the others and it was hard not lose oneself in the romanticism of the road.

When we finally gave in to hoarse voices and nagging exhaustion it was with the comforting feeling that we were no longer really alone on the road and carried the spirits of our companions with us.

Next Entry: Day 96. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 94. Gradignon

Day 94. Gradignon. Nov 8 2001.

A rainy day at home, doing preparations of our train trip to Avignon. A respite from racing around the narrow streets of Bordeaux and a chance to catch up on writing.

There was such a flurry of things that passed us by in the last few days that I was bound the miss a few. Most glaring among the omissions were the plethora of names left from my list of famous painters who failed to make much of an impression on me.

There was a painting by Van Dyck, one by Rubens, Chardin, Van Gogh, so many that they were beginning to flow like water.

Delacroix’s “La Grece Sur Les Ruins De Missolonghi" was stunning and powerful and if it had been in a room alone or with two or three other paintings, each chosen specifically to highlight one another it would stop you in your tracks and force you to explore the visual details for hours. But here, mounted with a hundred other paintings it became nothing more than wallpaper. Nice wallpaper, but but wallpaper nonetheless.

I can't remember if I wrote about the statues lining the entire second wing and I am too lazy to check so I will, perhaps, repeat myself. Only three in particular caught my attention of which I know the title of one and none of the artists. The one whose title I remember was “La Garonne” an allegorical representation of the river Bordeaux faces. It was a bronze of a woman reclining in a flow of water, leaning so far back she is almost lost in the waters. On either side of the flowing water is shore composed entirely of grapes.

It was beautiful but that was not what caught my attention. The piece seemed composed entirely, I’m sure not by the artist's original intention, of irony. Nowhere along the Garonne had we seen anything to evoke beauty or tranquility. Instead the river was a churning mud mess with the detritus of a thousand kilometers choking the banks and spilling out to smash against the docks of the city. Perhaps the artist was thinking somewhere upstream.

The other two that caught my eye seemed to belong to a set. They were statues of women out of marble that had obviously been outside for a very long time. They were weathered and scratched were vandals had gotten to them. One was of a young woman with the idealized body of womanhood, large breasts but perky in defiance of gravity, thin waist, well muscles arms and legs, almost a doll-like form.

The second was a woman, still beautiful, but now with a form that was humanly possible to achive. Full breasts that curved lower across her chest, a more curvaceous figure, fuller but more sensual, less heavily muscled. The pair seemed to show the ideal of beauty and the reality of beauty.

The Museum of Aquitaine, from the day before, had many exciting works of art, many pieces that seemed to capture the feeling of an era, and they were displayed exceptionally well.

The remains of Roman statues, often only the chest and stubs of neck, arms and legs, had lights trained on them to give them a unique glow, or were mounted against a red wall to contrast with the white pallor of the statues. The most impressive piece in the collection was the bronze figure of Hercules striding purposefully through the room. His face seemed so alive that his sightless eye sockets evoked a sense of pity and dismay at the blinding of such a powerful figure.

Many of the Museum's Gallo-Roman pieces had come as the city was excavated to make way for new buildings. One particularly rich source were the excavations for a supermarket's parking lot. Interestingly, since the supermarket was destroying old buildings to get their parking spaces the city of Bordeaux forced them to preserve the facades, so now shoppers park behind 18^th century homes.

Another portion of the museum that really caught my attention was the few model ships on display, although by the time we saw them we were hurrying through the museum to see as much as possible before it closed. There is something so intricate in the workings of a model ship. Even thought they can reach enormous size the detail is amazing and the knowledge required phenomenal. I remember at the naval history museum in Southampton they had displayed the bone model ships made by the French prisoners of war and the guest book had commented derogatorily about the lack of correct detail. You had to ask if the people writing the comments could have done better. It would be fun to make model ships, but there is something infinitely sad about a person making models of ships when they live twelve hours away from the ocean.

Today the rain had mingled with the cold to become a real danger. The water runs through the rocks like the beginnings of a river and though our belongings are wrapped in plastic they are beginning to get wet as the water seeps upward. Somehow the waterproof groundsheet of our fabric home has become waterproof no longer and the spreading stains of the damp congeal into puddles within our tent as we watch, as if the water is willfully forcing its way through the plastic.

I peer outside and see a torrent of water that streams down the gravel road of the campsite. Rain in November is new for us and I can see suddenly why the world sneers at the idea of warmth in Canada. For Calgarians the best we could expect in November is clear skies, the worst, heavy snow. Never rain.

I am reminded of our trip to Prince Rupert where we were almost rained out completely. Yet it was a very rewarding trip. Not so much in the conventional fashion of most vacation, but because it revealed so much about the inner workings of our vast country and the diversity of the people who call it home. The Tsimshian people were so proud of their heritage and their homeland was so beautiful. Deep fjords, misty islands and rain drenched forests.

Somehow I am back on the topic of rain. It will be, I fear, a dominant theme.

We stopped the other day, on our way back from grocery shopping, at the ruins of a wine making estate on the road towards our campground. There was a twelfth century church and an old estate home, both closed to the casual tourist such as we. But the garden was magnificent, overreaching green trees making a ceiling of foliage, only a few leaves clustered on the ground dropped from their lofty perch. There was a pathway of concentric arcs through the green grass and it was lined with flowers of all description, still in bloom. While we stood there the cold chased at us through our jackets and sweaters, chilling skin and making us long for warm soup but it left everything around us untouched. It was as if the cold taunted us and made us imagine that the cold was only in our heads. the beauty made it seem that we are trying to flee a phantom that cannot harm us. But the rain that beats a staccato rhythm on our huddled shelters is real, it has an icy grip and we have to try and get from beneath it, at least for a while.

Bordeaux, despite it’s generous museums and hidden beauty has been a disappointment. The grandeur here has faded beneath a veneer of indifference. You can still see the magnificence, like a beautiful painting left in a puddle of mud at the roadside, but its faint manifestations are almost sad. I know that we have not been charitable to the city, nor credited its successes, the museums and the shopping district, enough. But when cities that boast only half the population, or even less, seem to make more of an effort to show what little beauty they are gifted with and seemed to take so much more pride in their patrimony, you are little inclined to be charitable.

Or perhaps you cannot blame cities but must look more to the individual. Even in Saintes there were those who treated crypts as garbage cans, in La Rochelle those who pissed on the street. There is always a certain percentage who do not give a damn for beauty or heritage.

I cannot help but feel pity for those who strive so hard to make their city beautiful and are defeated by an uncaring few. It only takes a few to ruin it for the many. Michelangelo’s Pieta was wrecked by one crazed man.

At least the people seem to have been very friendly particularly our ticket agent and the guy at the museum. Friendliness makes up for a lot but not the tons of dog shit and not, for us, the rain.

Next Entry: Day 95. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 93. Bordeaux

Day 93. Bordeaux Nov 7 2001.

If yesterday was busy then today was only slightly less so. We awoke, hungover from our disastrous encounter with a wine bottle, got dressed and headed for downtown. Today was much warmer than yesterday, which is not to say that it was warm.

Today’s long bus ride had none of the relaxing qualities of yesterdays. Our driver was determined to complete his shift as soon as possible and careened down the street with frantic speed, running lights, skipping stops and accelerating with stomach churning speed. By the time we were dropped at the base of the arch in the Place des Victories our heads were spinning more from the ride than the cheap wine.

We followed a side street to the train station and passed by the University of Bordeaux’s medical building. There was a statue out front of a full bodied woman labeled “Nature” lifting her skirt over her head.

We found our way to the Market of the Capuchins and wandered among the fresh crabs, tomatoes, cheeses and rabbits with their fur still on. The place swarmed with activity.

We did eventually make it to the train station and were helped by a man who seemed so genuinely delighted to be assisting people that he should have been the rail systems official spokesman. After finding out the prices for Nice and Rome yesterday we had come to an official decision. We would go to Avignon.

It was impossible to get a direct train there and still take our bikes but our helpful train representative almost exploded with delight when we found an alternative way to go. Every once in a while you encounter people so happy with life that their attitude is infectious. In Bordeaux we had encountered two.

 Last night at the Museum of Aquitaine the desk clerk had been so delighted when we were surprised by the entry fee of nothing, he had leaned acrossed the desk and whispered conspiratorially “Don’t Tell Paris.”

Today our SNCF rep, after I apologized for my horrible French, had leaned across the desk and said “At least you are better than the British.” 

We walked back to the market after buying tickets and Heather looked longingly at all the fresh produce. Then we headed for our goal of the day, the Museum of Beaux Arts.

We followed a little used back alley and came upon a spectacular gate in the old city wall with an intricate medieval clock in gold, silver and red mounted by a massive bell and a pair of turrets. The gate was romantically named the “Gate of the Big Bell.” Who says poetry is dead?

From there we followed the road of St.Thomas into an intricate warren of medieval cobblestone streets fronted by art stores.

Eventually we found our way to the Museum of Beaux Arts and, shouldering our way through the people drinking in the entrance, we made our way in.

The museum was nice enough, a long hallway in each wing divided into separate schools or themes. But Heather got more out of it, especially the first wing, than I. She was delighted to find examples of techniques she had studied in art school, but to me most of the paintings blended into a nice background.

The Dutch and Flemish schools of Art might have a lot to offer but I found little attraction in paintings of dead ducks and birds hanging on walls or still life paintings of decaying dinner.

There were many high profile names in the museum, Matisse, Delacroix, Renoir, Picasso and their works were spectacular. A Renoir of blowing trees was inviting enough that you could almost step through into the windy forest. The Picasso of “Olga Reading” seemed transitional between his early phase, when he drew realism, to the beginnings of his more impressionist style. Even Titian made an appearance and there was a bevy of Delacroix's on the walls.

But typically it was not the big names that struck me with their beauty, There was a painting of the Sphinx by an artist whose name I have forgotten where the sand seemed to flow like water and the hard stone had a liquid quality. It brought to mind H.P. Lovecraft’s assertion that the Sphinx concealed something of immensely ancient evil.

But the most stunning one of all was a life sized painting by Henri Martin called “Chacun sa Chimere” the visual realization of a poem.

“They came from we know not where and they go to the morning of desolation of their dreams unrealized.”

A procession of people across a desert following hopelessly after Winged Victory and Youthful Glory, each bearing their demons on their backs. It’s scale and power were overwhelming. The rest of the museum paled in comparison.

The naked ladies were nice though.

From the Museum of Fine Arts we went to the Museum of Decorative Arts where there was an exhibit displaying posters from the Salon Des Cent, including works by Toulouse Lautrec. I was more enthralled by the Art Nouveau pieces of furniture in the rooms as the rest of the Museum was mostly porcelain collections from old hotels. Nice, if you like plates.

From there we walked. First down the Rue Des Trios Conils where we stopped at a fantastic Bonsai tree shop. The floor was smooth river pebbles and the scent of green living things filled the air. Behind us was the Place Gambetta, a beautiful park surrounded by heavy traffic where 300 people had lost their heads during the revolution.

From here we walked to the Rue St. Catherine where yesterday I had seen a child prostitute for the first time in my sheltered life. She had smiled coyly in her backpack and little girls clothes while nearby a sinister looking man whistled tunelessly and flipped through a magazine without seeing it, eying instead the passersby.

The rue was a pedestrian mall where all the most trendy shops were. We had visited the Galeria Bordelais yesterday, a covered arcade in neoclassical style, so today we walked south, the Arch of the Porte D’Aquitaine our landmark at the far end.

The shops were great to browse but we soon became hungry and had to search out a supermarket. As we scurried about buying groceries I somehow attracted the attention of a security guard who followed me about the store, picking up a single box of food to look as though he was a regular shopper. Eventually I opened my jacket show him I had nothing hidden and he slumped away in angry disappointment.

From the supermarket I wanted to go to the synagogue that the Nazi’s had used as a prison in WWII but the police vans and men armed with machine guns out front gave us pause. Watching the Bordeauxians walk around them without concern I walked to the gate of the synagogue to go in, at which point the police started to yell at me that it was forbidden. Prudence being the better part of valor, we didn't go in.

The police presence in the middle of Bordeaux had begun to swell alarmingly. Every corner suddenly seemed to have armed men on it. We thought it would be a good time to leave. Whether something was happening or there were always that many police, I don’t know.

Next Entry: Day 94. Gradignon
Previous Entry: Day 92. Bordeaux