Sunday Drive Series: Part 3-- the beach!

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

We took a drive to the sea today, finally. To a town called Sainte Marie de la Mer (St. Marie of the Sea). It looks a lot like any mid-rate tourist-y town by the sea. I thought of my one trip to the Jersey Shore (pre-Snooky, circa 1999, thanks Tim!) or my multiple trips to Ft. Lauderdale (thanks ESA!). White-washed buildings and blue, blue sky. Overuse of nautically-themed decorations, especially considering that the city is mostly populated by families eating ice cream while they window shop and too-tanned women with saggy, leathery breasts walking around in bikini tops. Not a sailor in sight. There was even a tattoo parlor called American tattoo, in amongst the ice cream stands and Provence gift shops. So they knew what their gig was. Cedric said to me, this isn't exactly Nice. I thought, no, it ain't, but I still love soaking in the atmosphere. I knew the sea air was even affecting Cedric when he spoke wistfully about getting a boat one day. (I indulged him but didn't get my hopes up.)

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

While Ste. Marie de la Mer isn't Nice, it isn't New Jersey either. It's located in the Camargue, a region in southern France that is really just a swamp, that stinks in the summer, but a swamp with some history, like most of Europe. The Camargue is known for its bulls and horses. The men herd the bulls on horseback, which is nice because otherwise, they'd be standing in a swamp. Some of these bulls are made into saucisson and sold on the side of the road, and some probably make their way to bull-fighting arenas of southern France, like the one that you pass on the boardwalk of Ste. Marie sur la Mer. Not exactly whack-a-mole.

And while Ste. Marie de la Mer is the next best thing for all of the French vacationers who weren't invited to P. Diddy's yacht on the Riveria, its appeal as a destination originated probably more due to Ste. Marie than to la Mer. I learned that when, happily walking along the beach, Cedric made us visit the main plaza. We passed a large bocce ball competition, but that wasn't what he was after.

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

He wanted to see the main church. Inside there was a sanctuary with the usual candle lighting for 2 euros. In the corner was a 4 foot tall plaster statue of Sainte Marie, the patron saint of the gypsies and apparently, the granter of miracles. There were candles lit and thank you messages scrawled all over the cavernous ceiling. When we left the church, I was reminded that she was the patron saint of gypsies when one approached us and for some reason, Cedric stopped long enough to let her pin something on his backpack, for which she (of course) then wanted 5 euros.

When we were sitting at a cafe afterwards, I remarked to Cedric that I noticed a lot of developmentally disabled adults (with their families) in this town. I think I had seen about 3 families so far in just a few hours. He paused and said, that might be because of the church and its patron saint Marie. I think he paused instinctively, knowing that I would not like this fact. But with his good Catholic upbringing, he knows his stuff. He told me that going to Lourdes, a city whose entire economy is based on granting miracles (a miracle-based economy?), you see busloads of disabled people, whose families desperate, or may be just hopeful, think, why not?, as they pay 10 euros for a bottle of holy water. While I didn't like this scenario, a city peddling false hope to the sick and their families, it did explain some aberrations in our otherwise stereotypical trip to the beach.

On the boardwalk, we were caught behind a man with ankles so bloated that he was having trouble walking. From our table, I had seen a woman with no eyebrows and a cap that covered her bald head. Once I realized that not all of these tourists were here for the surf and sun, I started to see more and more chronically sick people. Two women with swollen ankles slowly limped by our table. It got to be that I wasn't sure if they were sick or if I was just creating maladies for them in my head.

It was the most judgmental bout of people watching that I've ever had. Searching for illness amongst the passers-by. And imagine if Cedric was wrong. That the miracle church was actually one town over. Then really it would have just been flocks of unsuspecting tourists trying to enjoy their vacation. But I think he was right, since it's in the name--Ste. Marie--the granter of miracles. In the end, we figured, even if people were trekking here from all over France for the tiniest possibility that their grown son would one day be "normal", at least they, along with Cedric and I, got a nice day at the beach.

Finding inspiration

It turns out the Festival was not so inspiring for my blog. I did find another woman who is blogging the Festival much better than I have been.
Avignon in Photos
I especially like her blog because she writes in French and English. I would like to do that someday, but for now, I'll stick to English.

Tonight I will finally go see a production, which seems like a huge accomplishment these days, because I often come home from work very tired, from the heat (no A/C in my office) and from the French language. I have been here 3 months now and I am not fluent. Surprised? I know. I'm not sure what I expect from myself, but some days I just wish that I didn't have to strain to understand a conversation or to ask for something to be done by one of the students.

The show is "Le Cabinet du docteur Caligari"; the summary says it is based on expressionist German (silent) film from the 20s. The title is in French, the theatre troupe is from England and it's based on a silent movie, so I have no idea what or if they'll be speaking. When I read the description: a student whose pleasant life is disrupted by "a mysterious doctor and his worrying sleepwalker" (worrying sleepwalker could also be "frightening nightwalker"), for some reason, to me, it sounded like a great time. I think only being able to express myself at the level of a 5 year old has left me feeling a little dark in my humor these days.

We call it magic water.

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

Antesite. It dubiously boasts the healthful properties of being "anti-inflammatory, healing, calming and soothing". Yes, both calming and soothing. I can attest to its soothing properties, 'cause after walking around town in the 90 degree heat, a glass of the stuff tastes like heaven. Which is why we call it magic water. It tastes like sweet licorice with a little bit of mint. The color varies between light yellow and dark tan, depending on how much you use. Perhaps that makes its claims all the more convincing, because who really buys that a bright pink liquid is gonna quench your thirst. Yeah, Antesite kicks Vitamin Water's ass any day.

From the files: Sunday drives

From La Nouvelle Chick in France

April 25, 2010
Today Cedric and I finally went on a tourist-y trip into the countryside. After finishing our chores, which included hanging the laundry out to dry (one of my favorite new things that I do in France), we headed east towards Soult (originally, I wrote west; for some reason, I reverse east and west in my mind when I’m talking about places in Europe).  Cedric chose the destination, since everything I suggested he considered too far away.  When we were 30 minutes out of town we came upon a Foire d’asperges (Asparagus Festival!) in a small town called Mormoiron. I made Cedric stop the car since we didn’t really have any plans in Soult anyway. We parked and walked up a long road, anticipating a festival that was all about asparagus.  Instead we came upon a flea market just like the one we had gone to that morning in Avignon. Next there were the carnival games and the accompanying smell of  cotton candy (barbe de papa).  After the carnival, there was another market, but more like the traditional Sunday markets in Provence, which combine the overpriced produce of the farmer’s market with the questionable provenance of goods sold by a guy from the back of his car; at this particular market, we found a man selling leather clogs next to a stand selling authentic Provence tapenade, next to a woman selling bras and very large panties (culottes).
Finally, we found the vendors of asparagus- large, gnobby finger-like asparagus spears-that were selling for 6 euros a bunch.  No one was selling deep-fried asparagus or other asparagus-themed products.  So, instead of asparagus, I bought an asparagus-shaped magnet from a woman with only a car, no stall, completely covered in magnets.  Festival of asparagus, they called it. But it was all a ruse...and I fell for it.

Off we go..."Le Plus Grand Theatre du Monde"

 

Avignon is gearing up for its month long Theatre Festival.  Avignon is basically known for two things--the Palais des Papes and the Festival in July.  In this way, Avignon is basically a city to which fanatics make pilgrimages to indulge their particular zealotry. I'm being a little harsh.  It's not just fanatics; it's also hipsters. I noticed this evening that boys in skinny-legged pants had invaded our grocery store.  The oddest thing I saw is that the usual band of drunk Gypsy types that hang out at the entrance to the Intramuros were replaced by a troupe of actors practicing their show.  I wondered if the actors had somehow chased off the drunks, who seem steadfast in their allegiance to this entrance.  

In one day the entire town inside of the walls has been plastered with posters for the shows.  There are people all over pushing shopping carts full of cardboard, posters and even ladders in order to use reach all of the available space.  I doubt I will see many shows, as they start as early as 11AM, and will probably sell out on weekends.  I am still looking forward to the Festival for the change of pace.  Avignon is waking up--theatres that were closed for the past 11 months are opening their doors. Restaurants and stores are making an effort to be noticed.  Throughout the streets, there are people on stilts or playing the accordion in order to drum up interest in their particular show. 

In honor of this over-the-top festival and the sheer gall that Avignon has for hosting it, I will post something on this blog everyday in the month of July. I am inspired by another blog (by my friend Emily's mom, Dana) that is much more graceful in this endeavor that I will be.  I guess I will be taking my cue from the feeling of hodge-podge that this festival imparts as you become surrounded by its everywhere-ness (and its posters).