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.