P r o v e n c e

•••
I’ve been here only two days and now I see why my friends said, “You may not return.” I thought to myself, ‘You just don’t know the love of a good rabbit, if you did you wouldn’t say that.’ But, I must tell you that this place is completely mesmerizing. I’m already obsessed. Not to mention how hypnotic the winds of the Mediterranean Sea are.
I just may have to have my rabbits sent on some Animal Airbus. If there isn’t one, there should be. A big ol’ airplane that serves those edgy, modern animals set to visit their humans all over the world--completely equipped with treats and people who wait on them hand and foot. I think this will happen in my lifetime. I am hopeful.

THE VILLA IN CARCES
For those of you who don’t know, Betsy and Ken Kobre of SF CA have offered me their incredible three-story villa that is seated in the heart of Carces, South of France --just above Toulon and Marseille-- in exchange for a painting (or 3).
I’ve been to France before, but not the South of France, only Paris. In only 48 hours I’ve had experiences with the food, wine, men, dogs, pigeons, language, architecture, drivers, sea, a baker at midnight, and many instances of French people making fun of me...just to mention just a few. But I’ll begin with the pigeons.

FRENCH PIGEONS
The pigeons don’t have self confidence issues here. They belt out their coo so loudly, they sound like owls--even in the strong winds of the Med. They are loud and fat and they look at you like you owe them. Entitled. They are Euro
pigeons with Marin CA attitudes! It’s not just the French pigeons either--they are the same everywhere in Europe.
Venice, Florence, Amsterdam, maybe not so much in Transalvania where there are probably homeless vampires that feed on pigeons. Those pigeons, unfortunately, are probably pretty skinny and humble with soft voices.
The pigeons here are sort of like the French men. Completely in your face with their hunger, but magnificent and
noticeably charming at the same time.

FRENCH MEN
I drove straight to Carces after 18 hours of travel, arrived around midnight. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane. I got lost immediately. My phone didn’t work, though it was supposed to. I spotted this man walking around the village whistling and smiling, making hand motions to offer help. I finally gave in after circling him a couple times. I’m not sure what he thought but he immediately put his head into the car, his face 3 inches from mine. I pushed his head back out of the car and he laughed. I asked him, “Où est l’avenue Ferrindad?”
He spoke fast French. I began to use my hands. That universal sign language that looks apish and silly but does the job.
I got out of the car. He wore a white baker shirt that smelled like laundry detergent. He was a large and handsome man. He laughed at me (just the first of many) when I spoke French and would put his hand in my hair and say things I didn’t understand. He didn’t answer my question for a long time. He seemed to want something first.

He asked me how long I would be here, did I have family? Did I have a petit amie (boyfriend) or mari (husband)? I said, both of course. But he pressed on. He wanted me to go out with him on Thursday night. I said, no, Je suis ici pour peindre et visiter --I’m here to paint and visit-- he laughed and said Ce soir puis? Tonight then? It was midnight. I said in broken French. I am going now, you go this way and I’ll go that way. “seul?” he said, amazed. Alone? Oui, yes, seul. “No problem he said and then went on for another 5 minutes—something about how lovely I am and something about my red hair. I tapped him on the shoulder to interrupt him and put my head on my hands and yawned and closed my eyes. He laughed hard and got it. He kissed me on both cheeks, and we said our goodbyes.

The next morning I woke up early and went out to find a bakery. As I approached the bar that served alcohol, tobacco and espresso, another French man stood there on the corner. I looked like a bottom feeding crawdad with a perversity of red hair, I swear to god. Lo and behold there was my baker. He began to make fun of me to all the other bakers. I slithered away like a bruised ally cat, desparate for an espresso.

CARCES VILLAGE RESTAURANTS
Last night, Easter Evening, all the restaurants were closed except Le Saigon. The waitor gave me a menu. I gasped. There were illustrations of ducks standing up like people with their wings around each other in a buddy sort of gesture and below it an illustration of baby pigs suckling their mother, and under that all the pork dishes. The shrimp looked like a shrimp. Just laying there like it was already dead so I ordered the shrimp.

Tonight, I’m writing this from a quaint restaurant that serves mostly duck and fondue. It’s called the L’oie du bois (The Goose of Wood?). The waiter speaks a little English, and I speak a little French and the crowd behind me keeps laughing at us as we sort through our sentences. The waiter assures me they are laughing at him because they know him. In our conversations, I’ve learned that he listens to Blues in English only, he was a graphic designer for 15 years and the previous owners are artists as well. They draw. When I said ‘Moi, aussi’ – me too, regarding the graphic artist for 15 years, and that I am here this week to paint and draw mostly, he seemed not impressed. Sometimes, I am very aware of my American-ness here.

DESOLE -- ‘SORRY’ IS NOT A POPULAR WORD HERE.
I do know we say ‘I’m sorry’ a whole lot. I haven’t yet heard the phrase, Je suis désolé (I’m sorry) here—yet it seems to come up like a rite of passage in America, maybe even a weapon, a eradication of guilt, permission to trample. You see this in Peets or the grocery story sometimes. A person jumps another in line or spills on them while reaching for the half and half. Or you hear “sorry” in conversation where people are trying too hard. In France it feels simply unwise to say it. Coarse and weak somehow.

For instance, this group that keeps laughing at my French, well I waved them away and said, C’est Bon – it’s good, it’s fine, go away. And, they laughed more. Now I have their attention. When I said to the waiter “I’m sorry” (for not speaking better French) he looked down like he was embarrassed I had said it and the group behind me buried their faces in their food and seemed to pretend I hadn’t really said that. “I’m sorry” is clearly an act of tainted pride, an embarrassing thing. You just don’t do it here. And I find that as liberating as all the imperfections.

HEAVY STONE HOUSES
Walking to this restaurant, the smell of wood smoke and burnt cheese in the air, the loud creaking sounds of shutters closing and my heels clicking loudly on the brick. People live in heavy stone, so heavy, so old. I passed an old French prison, littered with beer bottles, plastic cups, but no gum that I could see on the ground.

This town is full of its own reality. Its own smells and sounds and people are more than tolerant. This is IT for them. This is how it’s always been. Seems a bit obvious to say that. Except I was raised in California where change is a religion of sorts--imperfections worked on, covered and tweaked. The power to transform reality into something new is quite exciting in California. So, this stone that will always be here and always was with its musty smells and the streets of creaky sounds is somehow a comfort--exciting in a different way. Like a film with a really good writer who knows how to write it so unto itself that we can’t help but fall completely and utterly in love with the story no matter the content.
I love California. I love the oak trees, the smell of eucalyptus, the acorns on the ground. Maybe not so much the grumpy people driving Cayenne SUV’s and honking at me for getting in their way when I ride my bike. They where they are, right? What’s a bike casualty here or there? Here, that same attitude comes out in the pigeons. And it works. Damn it if I don’t want to buy them freshly baked bread from one of the 4 bakeries in this village of 2500.

FRENCH DOGS
The dogs speak French! Only!
When I tried the same words in English only a quizicle look.
A woman was out walking her dog with her father and she told her dog to turn left ‘La Gauche.’ Later when I saw the dog and she was in the market. I said, ‘go left’ – the dog looked at me quizzically and froze.
Maybe ‘left’ sounded like arret! Stop. But English made no sense to this dog, that’s for sure. I’m going to paint that dog
for the exhibit in Sonoma. He can’t get away with casting me off when he’s made such an imprint. I hate one way
relationships with boy dogs. ; )

PAINTING
Spain is just a 1/2 day drive. I’ve always wanted to crash a Flamenco Dance event in Barcelona. But my experiences here have taken me in a different direction. I’m going to paint them for the exhibit and write some short fiction pieces instead of the exhibit I had planned. This is the one. This is too rich, humorous and quirky.

I see a week of four dollar Cote du Rhone wine and lots of painting, walking and being made fun of.

The sense of freedom here is tangible. It’s wild in that way that you can be when you really trust someone. Europe has always felt that way to me--unto itself, wild, wild, wild like the wind, and old as the sea.

Published in the book: Vignettes of Provence sold on Amazon.com

Comments

[Rosemary Carstens]

Ah, Niya--how wonderful it all sounds as you describe it. I've been there and often feel I've come home when I'm in Europe. There is just something different in the lifestyle, the enjoyment of culture. I'm glad you are having such a happy time--sorry I couldn't be with your rabbits! Or with you in Provence! Can't wait to see the new paintings when you return home! BTW, the new post on my blog is about a woman from Boulder living in Italy part of each year--check it out! Rosemary Carstens - http://carstensFEAST.blogspot.com

[Ingrid]

je suis jealoux!

[Niya Sisk]

Lizzie
C'est bon ici...

yes, it's marvelous and I wish you were here too...I truly do. We'd be taking this place by storm.

I'm coming back, I've decided every year for as long as possible. There is way too much to explore...I haven't even gotten to Spain and Italy yet and they are only a few hours away.

[Liz]

C'est bon ça, et puis, c'est marveileuse... j'espere que j'étais là, toujours...