Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Random Notes on a Pilgrimage to Provence

It seemed a reasonable trade: South Georgia for Provence in July. It was.

Provence is easy. A throng of tourists and a lot of lavender. A perfect place, until I reached the Hertz counter. I wanted a Hummer (don’t all Americans?). I rented a BMW.

The natives speak French. I got the guy with the big smile who “No parlez Inglis.” He spoke fast and figured numbers faster. I understood nothing, except that the rental would cost a little less than the purchase. I shrugged, picked a number. No clue what I obligated myself to. I later learned. I should have purchased!

French navigation systems employ English housewives. Ours was a charming lady with a calm voice. It’s good to have an authoritative intercessor dishing up directions. Many divorces begin when spouses drive in foreign lands. We often heard a pleasant, “Please make a U-turn immediately.” Unlike other female voices, she never prefaced it with “You idiot.”


‘Paradise in Provence’ is a restored six-house compound in the true French farm-house tradition. It’s in St. Remy. Our caravan of 26 pilgrims called it home base for two weeks. It’s not advisable to occupy close quarters with 26 friends. It’s a breeding ground for dissention. Worse, your wine disappears faster. It’s not a good thing to know too much about your friends.

St. Remy is better than Macon, but not by much. It has little to offer. Its notoriety comes from having once housed in the local asylum a long-deceased mad artist of posthumous renown by the name of Vincent Van Gogh. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. We visited his room in the stark hospital. Then we understood why he painted such things as black crows, meteorites and sunflowers. Shock treatments and other inhumane tortures tend to produce strange effects on people.

Provence highways are littered with roundabouts. Directional signs are small and come hurdling at you like the horn-blaring Renaults trailing behind. Decisions must be quick. We kept a well-stocked supply of wine, just in case. Wine dulls cognitive senses, so we learned the trick of going round and round until consensus could be reached as to the route. We did that a lot and were usually wrong. The English lady hung with us through it all. As far as we could tell, she didn’t drink wine.

In France one’s expected to eat well and drink wine. We did both, early and often. Menus are priced in Euros. The Euro is a common currency among bankrupt countries. We learned too late all menus are not alike: one for locals, another for tourists. Women are never given the ones with prices. Guess what happens?

The villages are lovely, if you like retro-antiquity, musty churches and steep slick stone walks. Parking is available in most, especially if you don’t mind walking several miles. We felt right at home because ‘Made in China’ is a common logo on merchandise in many shops. A Confederate flag flew in one. Go figure!

Cafes are crowded. Starving, we once found a secluded bistro willing to serve us. Later I understood why. The only item recognizable on the menu was mashed potatoes. Cost? 85 Euros. I followed the advice of Charlie, my gourmand friend, and ordered the cheapest thing…water. It was early morning when we finished washing the dishes!

I kept seeing signs for Huile D’ Olive. Strange name for a man. A franchise, I figured. I wondered who this fellow was. I later found out he’s the Col. Sanders of olive oil. I purchased some. He must be a very rich man with all those signs.

We ran out of money and came home. When we arrived in Orlando our old friend, Humidity, hounded us. It terrorized the women, whose hair hung from their heads like cords from a damp mop. Ah, the South!

That notwithstanding, the Custom Agent greeted us in a slow, southern drawl with the words, “Welcome Home.” I understood that!

We have other tidbits of travel in Provence. I’ll share these another time. But I feel it necessary to leave you with one caveat about travel in Provence: Take Visa or MasterCard. As for American Express, “Leave home without it!”

Bud Hearn
July 28, 2011

1 comment:

Kevin Udell said...

Perfect comparision between Provence and Macon!