the way to find a garden tool. I could look in and congratulate them on their work so far. This strategy seemed to be a successful balance of presence yet distance. Often my very passing at a critical moment resulted in their consulting me on the next decision they were about to make. This turned the work into a joint project with us all putting our two cents’ worth in and reaching a consensus before proceeding. It certainly prevented returning to find a hole in the wrong place.
The electrician arrived Tuesday and began installing wiring. Then, at the end of the second day, I saw him putting his tools into his case, so with some concern I asked if he would be back the next day. He reassured me that yes, he would be back, normalement. For a moment I felt relieved, and then with growing alarm I began to think about what he had actually said. He’d said, “Yes, I will be back the next day—” So far so good. But then he had added “normalement.” Slowly I realized what this little addition to the sentence really meant. It meant, “Normally I would be back, but . . .” I had come across that word before. As the French are reluctant to say no, instead they say “yes, normally”—which means “no, definitely.”
I smiled at the electrician as he lifted his tool case and headed toward the door, knowing that I had lost him for an indefinite length of time. I wanted to say something more, but I bit my tongue instead.
No one came the next day and it was mid-May. “Let’s risk it and drive to Avignon on Monday. Probably no one will turn up and we can at least buy the fixtures.”
We needed some bathroom fixtures and decided Leroy Merlin in Le Pontet just north of Avignon was the best place to buy them. Really we just wanted a day’s outing.
In sunny weather the drive south toward Avignon is a delight. Along the narrow and winding D538 from Nyons to Mirabel-aux-Baronnies, crumbling stone structures dot the orchards that cover the rolling hillsides. Between Mirabel and Vaison-la-Romaine, vineyards become more prevalent and signs appear indicating dégustation for anyone who wants to stop. We had stopped and sampled from time to time; however, we felt awkward taking the wives or vignerons away from their work to open bottles for us to taste and then not buy their wine. As a result, we already had a sufficient number of ‘guilt’ wines that wouldn’t cellar long. So we brought them out for unannounced guests before the contents turned to vinegar.
The hills become steeper between Vaison and Le Barroux as the D938 winds along a narrow valley. Then it abruptly descends to the broad fertile plain of the Rhône Valley, where the road straightens and the frustrated provençal drivers who have been bottled up behind us in the earlier curves pass at dangerous speeds and disappear in the distance.
Carpentras has no exterior ring road, so all drivers going through have to suffer the congested streets. Then, reaching the south edge of the city and the arrow-straight D942 highway, we dashed to Avignon.
We took the exit ramp at Le Pontet, a suburb on the north side of Avignon, and did our shopping. The drive took less than an hour. We had talked very little on the way as we were preoccupied taking in the scenery for the first time this year.
“We should be able to make it into Avignon for lunch. Do you want to try La Cour du Louvre in town or go to Le Bercail across the river?” Marie-Hélène asked.
“Le Bercail. . . . It’s sunny and warm, so we can eat on the terrace by the water,” I answered.
Le Bercail is known for its stunning location on an island looking across the Rhône River at Avignon. We arrived to see the bright red parasols that shade the diners spread along the riverbank. A canal boat with a husband-and-wife team and a child playing on deck chugged by as we ordered lunch.
“Bon appétit,” we said, and touched glasses. Our conversation turned to the fish and ducks swimming in the river just below us.
We gazed across the river toward the towering walls that surround the old city of Avignon. In 1309 Pope Clement V, fearing the violence and chaos in Rome, moved the Papal Curia to Avignon and began construction of the Pope’s Palace, which grew to cover an area of over 11,000 square metres and still dominates the skyline. Our view included the Pont d’Avignon, which now extends just halfway across the river, and its small chapel midway on the remaining part of the bridge. The 900-metre stone pont, built between 1171 and 1185, was constructed because of the divine inspiration of a shepherd boy. But unstable soil in the river bed led to numerous collapses, and finally the catastrophic flood of 1668 swept away too much of the structure for it to be worthwhile rebuilding. The shepherd was beatified Saint Bénézet for his vision, and the bridge inspired the song known around the world as “Sur le pont d’Avignon.”
We returned home that afternoon to find a rumpled piece of paper stuck in the door stating that the mason had been there but couldn’t get into the house to do any work. The tradesmen just assume there will always be someone there to let them in.
Marie-Hélène said, “Oh well, it was a nice day anyway.”
I had a sick feeling that they had left to start a new project somewhere that someone else had been waiting on, and that we wouldn’t see them again until that project was finished in a week or a month, or possibly longer.
• • •
Our projects kept us from pursuing the things that we had come to Provence to do. We had bought bicycles to get out into the countryside, not in a car but in the plein air, as the French call it. Except for a couple of outings when we first got them, they had remained in the garage. We assured ourselves we would have time to put them to use. Today, as a break from our work, and because no trades were there, we decided to do just that.
I got the bicycles out and pumped up the tires. We lacked the smart cycling outfits that we saw on the main roads almost daily, but we had shorts, runners and T-shirts and that would have to do. We also had something few Frenchmen seemed to wear—helmets.
The hill behind our house offered excellent riding. The back roads that ramble through the hills have almost no traffic except for the comings and goings of a few farmers. We planned a ride some fourteen kilometres over the hilltop to Vinsobres, lunch there and a return at our leisure. The first part of the ride was a steep section to the crest of the hill. This was the hardest part and it left us puffing.
“I need to rest,” Marie-Hélène said, climbing off her bicycle.
“So do I,” I said, gasping.
We sat on the ground next to a vineyard for several minutes while we recovered our breath.
“How do these vines grow here?” Marie-Hélène asked. “There’s just rock and no soil.”
I looked around to see vines growing out of a surface covered in stones. No soil was visible.
“Well, there is soil underneath. The ploughs just pull the stones to the surface.”
The first few leaves of spring had recently appeared on the vines, and small clusters of buds showed where the grape clusters would follow.
We wiped our brows, climbed back on our bicycles and settled down to the easier ride ahead. From here the road followed the contours of the land. We sped down the ravines to cross small bridges and struggled up the other side of each succeeding knoll. The hilltop has largely been turned into vineyards and orchards, with some undeveloped wild forest. We stopped from time to time on the crest of a hill to take in the stunning vistas south toward Mirabel-aux-Baronnies with Mount Ventoux in the distance, and then north into a small, heavily cultivated valley with stone farmhouses dotting the hillside. Animals are a part of life in this corner of the world. Cats, dogs, chickens, rabbits, donkeys and goats
