Chapter 6: Three days in Provence

Airbnb is a wonderful way of pushing yourself to experience local culture and nightlife. I likely wouldn't have gone to the local Irish pub in Avignon, for instance, without staying in an Airbnb. However, this time I wasn't looking for a drink. I needed to use the bathroom, and my hosts were busy having sex in the bathtub. 

That inconvenience aside, my Airbnb accommodation was decent enough. I am not a fan of Airbnb, which has had the perverse effect of pushing locals out of affordable rental accommodation in many inner cities. It's a terrible outcome both for renters and ultimately tourists, too: a city that's too expensive to have citizens isn't a city anymore, it's a theme park version of itself. So I am preferring to stay in hostels wherever possible. They create jobs, they don't drive up rents and they tend to have enough bathrooms for... whatever it is you need to do in bathrooms. I only booked this place after the one moderately priced hostel in Avignon suddenly closed a couple of weeks ago.

Thankfully my hosts weren't landlords looking to make more out of tourists than they could out of tenants. They're penniless students trying to put themselves through theatre school with a mattress on the floor of their study, and I'm happy to be able to support that. Just don't tell the landlord - at one point I was asked to hide while they came to check a broken light fitting. 

We got on well enough, though I didn't quite fit into their circle. When I mentioned my interest in economics a chill entered the room, followed by a very cautious question about whether I meant 'alternative economics'. I chose to interpret this as an endorsement of social democracy over rampant neo-liberalism, and answered enthusiastically in the affirmative. 

A couple of days later I tiptoed into a discussion of the French election. They are passionate supporters of Jean-Luc Melanchon, a Sanders-esque candidate with no hope of winning. When I said that I would vote for Macron, out of fear that the second round could become a contest between Fillon and Le Pen, I asked what they would do if that came to pass. "Make Revolution in the streets", one said. Sounds like a plan.

While my Airbnb had its advantages - a wonderful location in the heart of town, a room to myself and a washing machine I didn't need to go into debt to use - I was glad to leave when my time was up. Although hostels lack privacy, the invasion of space is mutual. It's not my room, but it's not my dormmates' either. In the apartment I was always acutely aware that I was in another person's house, where they are perfectly entitled to have friends over at midnight, taking turns reading Voltaire aloud (yep, this is France), and where it's not really my place to ask them not to have sex in the bathtub.

Anyway. Avignon. I actually only spent one full day here, as I was using it as a base to visit a couple of different towns in the area. I would have liked a bit more time in Provence (who wouldn't?), but it's one of the places that ultimately got crunched by a day or two once it came time to properly plan my movements. The basic strategy was to have a light day in Avignon, a bigger day in Arles and a day in Nimes, when I would also try to get out to the Pont du Gard. 

Avignon is famous for two things. The Papal Palace - an enormous, dour slab of a building - and the Pont d'Avignon, which is half a bridge. The palace came to be here after a Frenchman was elected pope in the 1300s, and set about trying to ensure that his successors would be French too. Universal Catholic Church, indeed. As well as stacking the college of cardinals with fellow Frenchmen, Clement V moved the papal capital from Rome to Avignon to be close to his ally, the Kingdom of France, which was at the time a five minute walk away across the river. 

The next four popes also based themselves here before the capital returned to Rome, after which an Italian was elected again. The French, no doubt wandering what possessed them to ever go back, elected their own candidates (now officially anti-popes) who continued to rule at Avignon for another couple of decades. After that it was occupied by papal representatives for a few hundred years before being turned into a military barracks during the revolution. 

Soldiers are not the best conservators, so not a great deal is left of the paintings and other artwork about the place. But it was an interesting visit. I was particularly bemused by the former treasury room, where they have opened up one of the vaults under the floor for people to see where bullion was stored. It was full of treasure of a different kind in the form of money thrown in there by tourists: euros, pounds, US dollars and probably other currencies I didn't recognise. There were no signs encouraging donations or indicating that there was a purpose for doing this. What is it about holes in the ground (and pools of water too) that make people want to part with their cash?

The Pont d'Avignon is rather more enigmatic. It's the remains of a bridge across the River Rhone that, for reasons I didn't fully decipher, was stone on one half - the Avignon side - before becoming a wooden structure across the other half of the river. Stone, unsurprisingly, is a more durable material than wood so when a flood washed away the wooden bit, Avignon was left with a bridge to nowhere. I bet at that point they regretted not finishing it properly.

On day two I went in search of Romans and flamingoes. Not usually two things that would go together, but they do in Arles. It has a motley ensemble of Roman sites, as well as a high quality archaeology museum, for which you can get a combined ticket for only €11. The most conspicuous sites are the arena and theatre - both of which are still in use - but the ones that made the bigger impression were more subtle, and both quite eerie to visit.

The vaults built underneath the Forum - now completely built over - have been excavated. When I visited I was fortunate enough to be the only one there, which is probably what turned it into a memorable experience. When you enter you initially question why you did: it looks more or less like an abandoned storm water drain, complete with water dripping out of fissures in the concrete above. There are passages off the main corridor, some leading to dead ends, some to other passages and some to big holes that I only very narrowly avoided falling into. It's dark and dingy and an excellent scene for a Halloween party. But there are also broken pieces of Roman columns and stelae, and it's easy to imagine the echoes you hear actually date back 1800 years. 

The Alyscamps - the remains of a Roman cemetery that was painted by Van Gogh when he lived in Arles - had something similar. It's mostly a single avenue lined with (empty) stone sarcophagi: Roman cemeteries had to be built outside city walls so most towns had graves lined across the major roads into town. A later addition to this site is a church that is now abandoned. Walking through it, the acoustics - presumably designed for choral voices - make the cooing and flapping of the pigeons that have taken it over sound other-worldly and weirdly intimidating. Again, I had the place to myself, which helped the mood-setting immensely. 

Once done with Arles it was off to find the flamingoes. There's a colony that nests in the Camargue - the river delta just south of Arles that is mostly famous, for having white horses. I saw the horses - they're white, but otherwise they're just horses. Seeing flamingoes in the wild, however, was worth hopping on a bus for. The area where they live has been turned into a paid attraction with a bus to the gate, so it's not exactly going off the beaten track in search of wildlife, but it was certainly worthwhile. I even spotted a wild otter as a bonus. 

Things very nearly went awry, though, when my bus back to Arles didn't turn up. I had an increasingly anxious wait for an hour, imagining myself stuck in a swamp overnight, with mosquitoes carrying dengue, malaria, smallpox or who knows what, before the last bus of the day actually arrived. I'd misread the sign that said the bus I wanted only ran during summer, because of course people who live in the area want to catch a 7:30 bus throughout the year, but only want a 6:30 one for a few months. It meant my plans of a cheap home-cooked meal back in Avignon turned into an outrageously expensive curry in Arles, but as my bus headed back into town I was treated to one of those Provençal sunsets over the wheat fields that inspired Van Gogh. So all's well that ends well.

For day three I had planned a visit to the Pont du Gard, a spectacular bridge that was built as part of a Roman aqueduct, and which is still usable by cars 1800 years later. Say what you will about Roman bloodthirst, but they knew how to build things. Unfortunately, while a bus did run a couple of times a day from Avignon I came to the conclusion that it wouldn't work. The bus schedules were clumsily made so that my two choices were a very rushed visit, or getting the last bus of the day and spending hours there for no good purpose. And I was leery of trusting the last bus of the day after my scare in the Camargue, so I decided against it. 

Instead I went to Nimes (just over the border in Languedoc-Rousillon), which also has a smattering of Roman sites, including the the best-preserved temple anywhere and a very good amphitheatre, which like the one at Arles is still in use. Unfortunately they are both used for bullfights, which I guess is at least consistent with their historical heritage as places dedicated to the torture and slaughter of animals. Both sites have been contracted out to a private company to run tourism services, with predictably tacky results. The temple has been turned into a small cinema, playing a cringeworthy short film depicting the founding of Roman Nimes.  

I didn't spend as long as long in Provence as I might have liked: it's one of a couple of places that got crunched when it came time to sit down and finalise plans. And I know this sounds weird but I like France a lot more than I expected. In particular, I want to push back against an unwarranted calumny that French people are rude, and refuse to speak to you unless it's in French. As with everywhere else, I've had nothing but friendliness and a desire to help from nearly everybody I've met. Vive la France.