le tour vids

The caravan.

The sprint finish.

your back yard

mmm . . .

"That sounds good . . . I'll have that."

s&j

dweezil!

Le chat de la maison.

arles la nuit (avec les deux tasses)

votre chez

golf

Linda invites you play some golf; it's been years since you've played, but hey, you've never played en France.  She has an extra set of clubs for you, she makes the rez, and you're off to her private club, Golf de Servanes, situated at the foot of a wavy, rolling outcropping of rock that reminds you of ocean waves.  You can see how, millennia ago, the relentless pounding of the ocean formed the geography here.  She immediately birdies they first two holes (she says she hasn't played since September); your first drive slices left into the olive grove.  Yes, the olive grove.

As the afternoon progresses, her game begins to fall apart and yours picks up: she has an eight on the par 5 ninth hole, you shoot par.  Still, overall, she takes you to the woodshed (an idiom you attempt to explain to her), thus avenging her petanque defeat the day earlier.

On one hole she points to a residence along the 7th fairway: an old Provencal farmer lives there.  He'd sold some of his land to build the golf course, but a stipulation was he could keep and live in his house.  If Linda comes by at the right time in the afternoon, he will invite her and her party over for a bit of pastis and conversation, and maybe some apricots picked fresh from the trees lining the fairways.  That will not happen at Bobby Jones, East Lake or the PDC.

the view from your front porch

lundi soir

The Arles Photography Festival is in full swing, so you, Damien, Manelle and Stephanie go into town and participate.  You enter the old city near some first century Roman ruins (now the Arles Amphitheatre) and  wander.  You come across an ancient church with a wide, arched doorway to its side and wander in to find a  large courtyard, big enough to hold a crowd of 200 - 300 people.  A French (?) film is being shown on a screen against the rear wall of the compound.  Pourquoi supposez-vous qu'il est Français?:  because it is wacky, existential, impenetrable, indecipherable, weighty, hilariously sérieux, with the mysterious appearance of some American Benjies and Death (or the Grim Reaper or some sort of representation of that dressed in black, naturellement).  You take all you can take, depart and find the town square, which is buzzing.  

Stephanie, Damien, Manelle.

The restaurant Damien wanted is booked solid, and it's late, so we settle for a touristy place next to it.  Average food, great atmosphere, lots of people, lots of languages, and you have a two hour dinner.  On the way back to the car you pass the church again; le film est terminé, and now the space is set up as a disco.  Free (cheap) champagne is being handed out, everyone is dressed up, eurostyle, and you groove to the music for a couple of hours.  You get to bed at 4 a.m.  Eurostyle!

fontvieille market, monday morning

les fleurs de provence

oleander

le garage du mas

mimosa

Growing around your homes in Atlanta and Florida are pittasporum, oleander, mimosa, fig and confederate jasmine. These plants/trees are scattered around the property in Provence, giving the landscape a familiar feel.

nefle

You've had your first French truffles, your first French pastis, and today, your first taste of nefle (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mespilus).  It is sweet, peachy, but with a bit thicker skin.  Yum.

petanque -- II

You’ve played petanque for years in the U.S.; now it’s time to go up against the home team.   So you head up to Fontvieille where, at the entrance to the town, is a public park with three tiers of courts.  You show up a little after three in the afternoon and a game is already underway:  two teams, three guys per team, each person plays two boules, and the first team to 13 wins.  So you watch, hang out on the “sidelines” (the court today has no official boundaries) and look interested. 

You are ignored complètement, as they click their boules, kick the dirt, shoot, and argue about points and strategy with big gestures.  You even hear a disgusted “Merde!” and most likely other curses for which your paltry French has no meaning.  So you start up a conversation with an old dude in a wheelchair, also observing the action.  After a particularly good shot he points and says “Un champion.”  He used to play, but, ah, no more, he says tapping his right thigh.  At the end of his leg is not a foot, or a prosthetic foot, but a chrome peg with a black rubber stopper on the end.  “Je suis fini,” he says.

It is clear that not even a surly look, much less a “Bonjour” will emerge from this tough crowd, so you walk up to one of the other courts where a game is in progress, this time with two old guys on one team and an old guy and a chunky farm girl on the other.  No acknowledgement from any of them either, although you do strike up a conversation with an old dude, walking his dog, but has stopped to check out the action.  Finally you decide it’s time to break out your boules, even if it’s only to play with yourself (sorry about that image) and get used to how the boules land and roll on the hard court surface.

The next morning, having a coffee at the café just down from the courts.  You see one of the guys from the game yesterday and say you saw him playing, and “Je voudrais a jouer petanque avec lui et ses amis.”  He nods and says to come today.  You can’t, but you tell him you will see him another day.  Bien.

provence après-midi

rollin', eurostyle

You glue half a paper onto the end of a regular one.  You form the filter with the liner of a pack of cigs, then break open a cig, placing only tabac near the filter.

You add the secret ingredient to the tabac. and place in the paper.

You roll 'em and smoke 'em if you got 'em.

double cupping the cafe

Monday morning petit déjeuner à Fontvieille.