Back in the Provence of the Popes

April 16-18, 2017

This has been one hell of a few days.

We left Newark on Saturday evening and landed at Charles de Gaulle around seven in the morning local time on Easter Sunday. (I know. I know. I swore I’d never go back to CDG, but that’s a story for another time.)

After a night in Paris, we boarded the Train a Grande Vitesse at Gare de Lyon for a three-hour ride to Avignon. 

Larry met us at the station and drove us to the Chabrans’ home, where we are staying this week.

This is the land of wine and honey (and lots of other great stuff). We haven’t bought any honey yet, but plan to bring some home. We’ve already started on wine.

The trip over was almost uneventful. Just as we came to the security check, I realized that I had forgotten about the switchblade in my vest pocket. I told them about it right away and surrendered it.

Good thing I collect them and have plenty of backups at home.

We took the commuter rail line RER from the airport to Gare du Nord because it is a straight run that far. When we left the station, there was a funny installation on the sidewalk, a scaled-down Parisian townhouse with a decided tilt.

We stayed in Paris at the Hotel Paris Bastille, near the Place de la Bastille and less than a kilometer from the rail station. 

It was clean enough, but they cut corners, so I don’t think we’ll go back there. The rooms are uncomfortably cramped, and my room was mostly filled by the bed. There was one small bath towel per person, much like the hostel where I’ve stayed in New York.

We arrived too early to check in and left our bags, so we could make it to an Easter service at Notre Dame. That was pretty spectacular. 

It was high mass, backed by a choir of 10 women who mainly sang unaccompanied. The service had begun when we arrived and the entire space seemed to fill with plainsong.

The center of the nave was full, so we found seats on the side. We couldn’t see the actual service but could watch on a monitor. The music was the big thing—the choir, the celebrant, the pipe organ.

Joanna was reluctant to leave her carry-on at the hotel because she had money and other valuables in it. The city is on high alert. When we reached the square in front of the cathedral, soldiers stopped us and asked her to open the bag. 

She had to open it again when we entered the church door.

There was quite a crowd outside the church, too, including one very colorful old guy on a bicycle.

We strolled back to the hotel after the service. We took a street called Rue Miron, which included a couple of buildings that, according to a sign, date back to the Middle Ages.

One had a bent wall looming over an alley. I don’t know if it was buckling or if it was built that way. It reminded me of the crooked houses of Amsterdam, and of the funny play house outside Gare du Nord.

We checked in and took a rest. We may have gotten catnaps on the plane, but if we managed two full hours’ sleep between the two of us, I’d be surprised. So we were beat.

We checked out a restaurant a few yards from the hotel, but were skeptical. It had taken roast chicken off its menu. And we were in the mood for chicken.

We went instead to Cafe Francais, which is on the Place de la Bastille facing the monument that marks where the old prison stood.

We had a plate of the tastiest green beans and mushrooms that I can remember. 

We also had snails, of course.

We followed that with chicken under a brown glaze that was also spectacular. 

I managed to spill a glass of Bordeaux on my jacket. The waiter brought me a small pitcher of hot water and vinegar. 

“It won’t do miracles,” he said. 

He was mistaken about that. There’s not a mark on the jacket, which is light blue. I’m still wearing it. 

After dessert we headed back to pass out.

We talked about walking to Gare de Lyon. It is less than a kilometer from the hotel. But wheeling bags that far can be a pain in the neck, so Monday morning we opted to wimp out and take a cab. 

It was fun to sit in the station for a while and watch people work out on the pedal-powered battery recharger.

We had bought our tickets online and printed them before we left. 
We had not done that before, but will again. There was no problem at all. The conductor scanned the code on our printouts and wished us a bon voyage.

We were on the top deck of a two-level car. We had no idea how many passengers would be trying to get out of the car at Avignon or how long the train would stop there. 

We didn’t want to be the two geriatric characters blocking the stairs with their suitcases, so we brought our bags down and finished the last 10 minutes or so of the ride in the vestibule. 

It’s good that we did. Not so many were getting off, but there were plenty of antsy people on the platform raring to get on board.

We took the glass elevator down to the main level of the station and saw Larry coming to meet us even before the car stopped.

We piled into the Citroen and got lost just outside Avignon. We got a good look at the city walls and gates while we searched for the sign that pointed the way to Carpentras, which is in the direction we needed to go for Beaumes-de-Venise.

We went this way, that way, and then Joanna saw the sign. So Larry turned us around one more time and we were good to go. 

When we arrived at the house, Sophie was in the pool. That is, she was in the dry pool grouting the replacement tile.

We had daube, the local beef stew, for dinner along with two local red wines. One was from the Beaumes-de-Venise co-op, which Claude heads, and the other was from Martinelle, a particular favorite of Larry's.

That was Monday. Tuesday is market day in Vaison-la-Romaine. We got up and headed to the market town and got there in time to get the last space in the parking lot.

Larry, who is the cook when he’s in Provence, didn’t need too much. But these open-air markets are always fun to visit. We walked around looking at stuff. 

Larry stood in line for sausage. Joanna bought a piece of pastry for a snack. 

There is an archeological site in town, and we walked around the fence above it, but the gate was closed so we couldn’t get in.

On the way back to the Chabrans’ house we stopped at winery called Domaine la Garrigue to get a few bottles of white and some rose. Garrigue is the local name for the ground cover in the region. 

It includes grass, flowers, and herbs all growing wild. 

Larry says it has a characteristic smell, which gets into the wines of the countryside.

We picked up rotisserie chicken at the small street market in Beaumes-de-Venise. We see rotisseries full of chickens here and in Paris. As the chickens cook, the fat falls onto potatoes that roast in the bottom of the rotisserie. The aroma is gorgeous.

We didn’t have the traditional roast potatoes but instead had potato pancakes that Larry found at the Vaison market.

After a nap, we went to Chateauneuf-du-Pape. The area around the town produces some of the world’s greatest wines,

We wound up buying two bottles from Eddie Feraud, two from Beaucastel, and one from Brun Avril.

The Brun Avril was one of the bottles we polished off with Tuesday’s dinner, duck breast, pan-fried leeks, and roast baby potatoes.

This is way too long already. I’ll send more another time.

So everybody be good, but not too good, and don’t forget to stop and smell the wine.

Harry