Glaunum uncovered

Two ancient and magnificently beautiful Roman structures lie on the outskirts of  Saint Remy De Provence.  These structures were built to display the power and wealth to travelers as they made their way towards the town about a mile away.  While these large monuments were admired and taken care of over time, the remnants of the ancient town weren't discovered until the early 1900s.   Like most towns, the buildings had been remodeled and added to over the decades until they were finally abandoned and left to be buried by time.  Therefore the structures vary in age and style.  

The oldest structures start at the base of the mountains from the original Gaulish village existing in 30 BC.  The Romans started to dominate the area after Christ died and they changed the city and absorbed the Gaulish culture and its residents into their own.  The city was strategically located at the base of the Alpilles just where the road to pass over the mountains starts.  So, they would demand riches, food and materials from travelers in exchange for the right to pass-a toll of sorts.  Some of the newer Roman buildings, like the one's above were constructed in 30-50 A.D. as the Romans continued to modernize and build up the city.  

A reconstruction of how a wall in a Roman
house would be painted.  They found faded pieces
of these colorful walls and put them together
like a puzzle to figure out the patterns.  

A fountain- water would pour into the large
indoor pools where they would bathe. Some
pools were heated and others tepid and yet
others cold.  

The size and complexity of this area was striking.  I walked on the stone pathway that ran down the center of their town, up the steps that led to their holy shrine, stood in the crumbled walls of their bedroom and gazed at the intricate water system for their latrines.  I imagine the Romans in their daily lives and I ponder the fact that my foot is touching the stone just where one of theirs did and in my lungs the molecules that they once breathed out.

In an ancient Roman City

Where the olive trees delight

The stones that were once burried

Again meet the light

The walls once in color

Though I imagine them white

In an ancient Gaulish village

Re-risen in spite

Of the winds that storm the valley

Like the taureaux hooves in flight

and the sun that bakes and breaks

With its relentless stubborn might

The hills stand like mothers

Holding their rock children tight

But time wastes and chafes

And keeps the mountains awake at night

Europeans are a bunch of Animals

PART I

I can recall my very first day in Europe so clearly-walking alone down the streets of Dublin. I can still clearly see  the buildings and people in vivid colors.  In reality it was probably several shades of grey.  But I was like someone freshly in love, everything appeared bright and sharp and wonderful.  Over the next few days exploring, I began to feel a peculiar loneliness.  However, I wasn't lonely for family or friends.  I realized something was missing on the streets and in the park.  Something was missing from the neighborhoods and windowsills.  Then, on day three when a little Westie strolled by on his leash, (West Highland Terrier for you "non dog-obsessed" friends) I realized what was missing. There was a complete absence of dogs and cats save for that one little Westie.  I still don't know why this is, but I do know that while I was aware of the lack of furry citizens, I was even more acutely aware of their presence as my trip continued.

Lunch at the Racetrack

While in Toulouse (my first french city) Elise and I brought our books and 2 ham and camembert sandwiches to the banks of the Garonne.  On the East side of the river there was expansive green grass, a few weeping willows and a long promenade- a popular spot for much of the city's citizens.  While the other bank of the river would get the shadow of the city as the sun dipped into the West, this side stayed warm and buttery.  There were old couples dressed with shiny shoes and little hats holding hands and walking.  There were young people smoking and playing guitar.   There were some African girls with a boom box practicing some pretty impressive dance moves.  But most entertaining of all were the happy dogs allowed to run free.


FREE is the key word here.  The dogs were allowed such liberty that it was impossible to tell who owned them. The owners were not worried or obsessed with what their dog was nibbling on or who he was sniffing or how often he lifted his leg.  The dogs frolicked ahead, or lingered behind or (as I enjoyed most) raced in circles with one another.  They were truly happy and they figured out on their own how to behave with the other dogs.

The dogs would speed past us just inches away.  Then they would check out each other and sniff in the grass.  While I was enjoying this, the girl next to us was clearly uncomfortable.  She kept fidgeting and arranging herself and wouldn't take her eyes off them.  She was clearly afraid of their size and freedom.   Though I should have more sympathy, I found it pretty hilarious.  Especially when I caught these photos.

On another jaunt in Toulouse, I saw this kitty pondering whether his 3rd life was really worth living.  Don't jump!

Les Chats et Chiens du Chateaux 

(The cats and dogs of the Castle)

Carcasonne is a huge and well preserved Chateaux.  A little city of touristy restaurants and shops lie within its walls.  But, I was surprised that also within its walls were some interesting residents. 

This Sharpei had no obvious owner, he just languished in the sun around the outdoor cafes.  Someone should remind him that sun causes wrinkles.  

Buy your very own Carcassone Cat for 30€. (assembly required)

This dog remained still like a Mannequin, even when I approached the window to take his picture.  Waiting loyally for his owner.

Its Good to Invite your Neighbors Over for Warm Milk and Catnip.

In the Montpellier apartment three stories up, we were often visited by the neighbor's girl kitty.  She would hop over from her window terrace and roll around affectionately.  She definitely liked our apartment better.  The neighbor would knock and ask if we'd seen her and sure enough she would be hanging with us. 

Critters of Collioure

In Collioure, here is one of the locals.  Often seen gazing at the birds on the beach, and darting down the promenade-this Border Collie was typical in his high energy.  The three times I saw him, he had a ball (or in this case a pine cone) in his mouth and was concentrated on finding something to herd.   Needless to say, he had no interest in getting pets.  

This old whippet came out to greet me from his shop.  Of course, I went in and actually bought something.  

 

I went hiking above Collioure by myself on a warm balmy day.  

 Here I saw a baby lizard (just 2 inches long)

This sweet Prickly Pear fruit was being enjoyed by three ants.  This reminds me of a great french phrase.  When a body part is tingly and we say "my foot is asleep", the french say "J'ai des fourmis"meaning "I have ants".  It really does feel like that, doesn't it?

Where am I now?

I see this black symbol of the Camargue region everywhere.  The cross represents religion, the spikes on the cross represent spearing the bull, the anchor represents the importance of fishing and the heart, the love for this countryside. 

While all these adventures were unfolding, I was waiting for one critical part of my trip to come together.  I would be spending a month with a family teaching them English and living in their home- a cultural and language exchange of sorts.  I could be placed anywhere in France- The alps, Paris, the Atlantic Coast, a large city, a small farm in Burgundy?????  Finally, I found out that I would be splitting my month between 2 families living in Provence.  Could this be any more perfect?  The most loved area of France for many tourists, for painters and for writers AND one of the most expensive areas to visit!  Here I am with a lovely home, a room of my own and 3 french home-cooked meals a day.  I am staying right now with a really cool family in the beautiful town (a small town like I prefer) of Saint Remy De Provence.

Beatrice and Thierry have two daughters named Marion (16 years old) and Romane (12 years old) Here are some of the things I have been doing wIth them (or on my own)



Marion et moi at the Party

A SUPRISE PARTY AT MARIE'S

On the first night in town I went to a surprise party for one of Beatrice's friends.  Outside, in a beautiful yard and warm weather, we were drinking champagne and eating various types of Quiche's.  The children played in the yard until well after their bedtimes.  At first, the adults were very shy to try to talk to me in English-even the ones who knew it well.  Eventually,  after a good buzz several people tried to talk more.  But I could not understand one guy at all, Beatrice leaned over and explained "he's not making much sense in French either." The night led to dancing out on the terrace.   A melange of French music and Ameican music was playing loudly with no worry about the neighbors.  Funny how all the woman sang along to just the English songs.  "I, I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive!"  Pëople would cast glances my way and I was proud.  Nothing tops American rock and roll.
  

 

As usual, it was mostly the women dancing.



THE CAMARGUE CULTURE

I soon learned that there is a lot of pride in the old Provencal culture.  In particular, this region extending down to the Mediterranean Sea surrounds a Marshy delta called Camargue.   Here you find native pink flamengos and other shore birds.  In the more dry feilds between the marshes you also find two distinct symbols of the Camargue culture; the rather small white horses (they start out grey/brown and turn more white as they get older) and the rather huge Taureaux (black bulls). There is a strong cultural heritage here- a Provençal version of the Wild West-consisting of french "cowboys" and bullfighting.   We drove down the Saint Marie de La Mer on the Mediterranean Sea and I got all of these symbols wih my own eyes.  You will just have to take my word on the bulls and flamengos because the photos are lousy.  

In the fall, a group tours from town to town dressed in this traditional clothing of the late 1800's.  Horse-drawn carriages parade down the streets and men ride the white horses.  But the most excitement comes from the bulls who are let loose on the streets and kept under control only by the men on horseback.  It just so happens that my first weekend in Saint Remy was the weekend they came through town.  

 

The bulls are herded down the narrow streets of Saint Remy.  While some people choose to stand behind temporary gates put up, others (often teenage boys) can watch on the sidewalk or run along side and many do-just a few feet away from the bulls.  I stood next to the back of a big open truck with a ramp leading into it.  As the procession ended and the horse-drawn carriages disappeared down the streets, the bulls were let loose (didn't get photos of this). They were chased full speed down the street towards the truck and onlookers (myself included) The bulls (about 10 of them) stormed towards us and into the truck where the door was quickly shut on them and the horses reared up.  The men and horses were dripping with sweat and a smell of burning flesh (their hooves) wafted through the air.  

In those last moments; I am sure my heart was beating as quickly as the hooves on the cobblestone streets.                                

THE MARKET

The market is beautiful and fills most of the downtown area of Saint Remy.  The younger daughter Romane is the only one who has the day off; so we went to look around.  Food is in abundance, but so are clothes and crafts.  I found the food more beautiful of course.

Romane: Say Cheese!



You cannot tell but these loaves are the length of Romane's arm and as wide as her waist.

Berry, Berry Beautiful

Like the cigarettes, of course.

                                                                                                      

We sampled sausage in all shapes and of many animals inluding wild boar and donkey.  Some sausage has olives in it, some walnuts, but all pretty darn good. 

THE LAKE ABOVE TOWN

In the same location of an original Roman aquaduct (necessary for a naturally dry area) is the current man- made lake.  You can enjoy the beauty, but cannot swim since it is the drinking water source at times.  Lots of people were having picnics with their dogs (french bulldogs).  SOO CUTE. 

Montpellier by Candlelight

I could not find anyone to couchsurf with in Montpellier, but then I noticed David was online.  I asked about hostils in the area- knowing he had gone to school there.  When we talked, I found out he would be arriving at a friends there the day before me to look for a PHD position.  He said I could stay as long as I wished since people often crash at this flat. And this is how I saw David again.

                                                                  *       *       *

I spot David standing still in a rush of people coming and going through the train station doors.  I sigh with relief, knowing I can let go of the stress that I would be met instead by a thousand strangers with their own doors to enter.  But I cannot entirely be at ease because David begins to talk to me in French...only.  "Je ne comprends pas" I stammer.  He repeats his questions slower but in French.  He's gonna be tough on me, I can tell.  In English he exclaims playfully "Wha Jusseee, you huf tooo speak in french; my friends cannot speak English" I realize, my friends in Toulouse were too easy on me.

We go to our door down the narrow Rue Baudin lined with old cement buildings 4 stories hight. This, David tells me, is the highest they could build them before 1900. There are a few buildings on the edge of the neighborhood with a fifth story (indicating they are newer than 1900)  The buildings are cement and grey with rod iron terraces at each window and big wooden dingy doors at the ground floor.  We hit the old buzzer for our flat and someone lets us in.  Once inside, the smell hits you.  I think time has an odor all its own.  It is faint at first when it is new, barely perceivable.  As it settles in corners, the layers become dense; they sweeten and then sour like wine.  These cement steps twist up into the ceiling.  They are worn in the middle, uneven and slowly sinking-no longer flat from a thousand forgotton footsteps.  I smell the fermenting of time. 

The flat is large, hollow and creaky with 3 bedrooms, tall ceilings and red tile floors.  Inhabited by students (2 male and 1 female) it is dingy and cluttered with beer bottles and wine bottles several of which hold white candlesticks and are cloaked in wax.  I  find out from David that the electricity bill was not paid in time; hence the candles and the various contents of the fridge laid out on the counter.  This, mixed with very very very old plumbing, and we were practically living in the 1800's. 

But why was the food not in the trash?  Well, I came to realize that standards for what is edible are quite different here.  These french will eat anthing.  I say these, because I cannot conclude they are typical- in fact they probably aren't.  When poor student meets grungy artsy/hippy and is raised in French culture. . .voila.  A salad has sat in a pot on the floor for 3 days with lettuce, veggies and tuna.  David picks it up and eats it whenever he is hungry.  The cheese rounds ooze out onto the table and the baguetts are kept under the coffee table like old slippers- you tear off a peice as you wish. 

They are slobs to put it harshly-completely opposite of the British.   They talk with their mouths full, have food in their teeth and nutella in the corners of their mouths.  They smell of body odor and garlic and I only saw David shower and just once in a week. They walk around in their underware, but they are wonderful.  They have let me sleep in their bed and have welcomed me with smiles and affection.  They share their wine and bread.  They try to speak slowly for me, but at times it is useless. I just enjoy listening to them talk and laugh and gesture and sing.  Nicholas, David and Matieu break into song often and I am told it is poitical farse-impossible to understand. 

The girls I meet are even nicer.  I sense no critique, jealousy or competition as is common in many circles I have been in.  Constance tells me I have practically no american accent when I speak french; a compliment I hold dearly.  Delphine smiles with her whole face and touches my arm frequently. 

It is so difficult to speak.  Sometimes it comes easy and othertimes pulling a word up fom the depths is like catching a whale with a fishing pole.  Sometimes my accent is spot on and other times my tongue rebels like a child with a sugar high.  It is exhausting.  David and I run into people all over town.  I am introduced to dozens of people and multiply that by 3 kisses each, I have given more kisses than an Italian grandmother (3 kisses are the norm in this region- 2 in Paris) If only I could tell my french teachers that you never actually say "Je m'appelle" or "My name is" Instead, you kiss 3 times and somewhere in between the pursed lips and squished cheeks you say your name.

I have decided that this is a fabulous way of meeting.  The new person walks up to each person in the room and shares three kisses and their name and everyone is at ease.  Much easier than my experiences at gatherings back home where the host, the newbie and the other guests are all "sort of" responsible for introductions.

In the U.S. when one enters a room, the host should introduce them.  This creates pressure for the host to remember everyone's name and everyone's partner's name.  They have the irritating responsibility to make the rounds for each new guest. (when will the host get to relax and complete a conversation?)  If the host doesn't do this job well, and some don't, then you are left awkwardly waiting to be introduced.  We have all experienced this, eyeing a new stranger and later into the evening you are aware that you still have not really met that person. Should you go up to them and shake hands?  Well, at this point it would seem weird since you actually had a conversation with them earlier in a little circle of people- disagreed on their theory for the upcoming elections-noticed they had a speck of something in their teeth.  But you didn't say anything.  Well, how could you when you didn't even know their name. Then you leave or they leave and you catch their eye and feel the guilt of still never really meeting them. 

It just takes three kisses and everyone feels like a friend.  The distance is reduced, intimacy established and the wall crumbles to match the other walls in this 19th century flat.