South of France, never Southern France

Why is it called the South of France, but there’s “southern Italy?” Is France special? My dad would say yes. I think I’m inclined to think so too. The South of France is special, even covered in snow as it has been. (I thought it was always sunny and warm in the South of France. I kind of feel lied to.)

Our journey from Italy to France involved cars and trains, and was a bit of an odyssey. We drove through snow, we drove through rain, we drove through sun. This lasted less than one day. There is no way to explain weather. Here’s what we did in France; I’ve put it all in order, but left out which day was which because I don’t really recall. They all kind of blend together.

We started our time in France in Nice, where we spent the first night, and the next day we stopped in Monaco for a bit. Oh, Monaco. If I had roughly 15x the amount of money I will earn in a lifetime, I would vacation there sometime. It is pristine. Other parts of Europe that I have seen have been unfairly vandalised with graffiti, but not Monaco. Either there are no vandals there, or there’s a special task force that wakes up early every morning and scrubs off walls. I don’t really know which is more reasonable. Monaco is an independent country in the South of France, governed by Prince Albert II. The whole country seems to be a series of hills leading into the ocean, and every hill has beautiful, modern buildings built right into it. In fact, the country is so much of a hill, that there are public elevators to get from one street to another. Talk about luxury! Every year there is also a Formula 1 race that goes through the city streets. I really don’t know what to make of this place.

Our next step was Saint Paul, a walled city on a hill. We have been to a couple of those now, and I love them. There is no possibility of driving there, because the streets are far too narrow. The roads twist up to the top of the hill, and skinny little shops line them. The shops vary from Fancy Art to cute-and-touristy in nature. I liked all of them, and wanted to buy a painting before I remembered that a) I cannot afford a painting and b) I live in a dorm room. The logic was hard to ignore.

After Saint Paul, we drove through the Esterel, an area that reminded me remarkable of southern California, except classy. Dad claims that the water there is usually still and clear, but on this particular day it was crashing over rocks in brilliant explosions. It was a vibrant blue, and the reddish cliffs dropping down into the water set it off to particularly nice effect.

Next came the Calanques (or “fjords”). These were so cool clear, calm, turquoise water snaked back into the land between high cliffs of off-white rock. We were able to walk down to the bottom of one, and I took of my shoes and walked in the water for a bit. It was cold, but really wonderful. I am determined to go back sometime in the summer so I can swim in one! I wish I could take the kids with me—it’s exactly the sort of thing they would really like.

The Calanques were followed by Gordes, another one of those cities-made-of-stone-on-a-hill. I don’t think I could ever get tired of those. They all have such character and charm—and this one even had a chateau!

We drove down from Gordes down to the Abbey of Senanque, which is famous for it’s lavender fields. As you may have guessed, there was a bit of a shortage of lavender this time of year, but the abbey was covered in snow. The sun was shining brightly and everything just sparkled. The only downside is that the shoes I was wearing were really, really not made for snow. My Converse* started making my feet bleed while in Rome, so I threw them away. That left me with two pairs of flats—no traction, no insulation. I’m sure it’s entertaining watching me try to get around in the snow with those shoes on. Only once did I fall over, though!

*I do recognise that Converse are not really snow shoes either. But I spend most of my time in southern California, so can you blame me?

Senanque gave way to the Village of Bories, a little village of stone huts that are several hundred years old. They were built without mortar, only using a hammer. Impressive, eh? I was surprised at how dry there were inside, though I still don’t think I’d want to live in one—a bit to chilly for me! I did have fun exploring the town, though, and climbed up to what I think was an attic dedicated to the storing of wine. The stairs were a bit precarious in the snow, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

We stopped in Grasse for a little while, and investigated one of the perfume shops. Unfortunately the season stands in the way of seeing wonderful fields of flowers, but I figure I’ll be back some day. In the meantime, I had a good time making my own perfume! It’s a mixture of honeysuckle, orange blossom, cotton, blackberry, white musck and… well, and a variety of other scents that I seem to not remember clearly. The perfume technician (is that a job title? I think I made it up) was extremely enthusiastic. To hear her talk, I could be the next great perfumist (another made up job title). Somehow, I doubt that is my calling.

Next up, the Fontaine de Vauclose! Magical, magical, magical. Water gushes forth from an underground spring and goes spilling along in a river. It’s a lot of water that just appears from underground. Right where it comes up the pool is still and very clear. It’s a deep blue-green colour, and shockingly pretty. It’s also kind of eerie, knowing that it goes down so deep (Jacque Cousteau dove down, but couldn’t find where it started) and so much water is coming up all the time. That doesn’t really explain why it was eerie, I suppose, but it did have a peculiar, though enchanting, feeling about it.

Before too long we were in Avignon, the city where my dad attended school 35 years ago. We got to see where his old flat is, have breakfast in a café he used to frequent, and generally see the city he used to know as well as I know Claremont, or my neck of the woods in London. It was a lot of fun, though I wish I could see Avignon the way it used to be. Evidently a lot has changed, but it is impossible for me to see what, exactly. Why isn’t time travel an option? Charming little city, though—I certainly wouldn’t mind living there for a while!

While we were staying in Avignon, we drove out to see the Roman aquaduct/highway. What. A. Bridge. I cannot imagine how they could construct something that huge without modern technology, but the Romans do just continue to amaze me. And we think that we’re advanced! Ha!

And now for the highlight of the South of France: We went on a journey to try to find a vineyard where we could sample some wine. Now, you may think this sounds easy (it is France, after all) but it isn’t. It’s January. Vineyards are not real happenin’ places in January. Finally, at Chateauneuf-de-pape, we found one. The proprieter had to be found and asked if he was willing to have a couple of customers and—thankfully!—he consented. We spent about an hour tasting delicious wines. Most of them were red, but one was white, and that one was the most amazing wine I have ever tasted. I told my friend Herbie that it “smelled like perfume and tasted like glory,” but that isn’t really very descriptive. Suffice to say, it was incredible. We own it now, of course, and I am really looking forward to sitting on my deck this summer someday after work and sipping on a glass of this wine. Ooh.

My dad’s favourite part of this event was that Alain, the owner, happened to know two of my dad’s friends from school! Small world. Alain himself was a charming, enthusiastic little man who had inherited this vineyard from his father. He smiled tenderly at the wine whenever he handled a bottle, told us exactly how to pour it, and explained that “wine is love.” Well, who am I to argue?

As we drove along toward Paris over the next couple of days, the world was coated in frost. Pure white, glittering frost. I took some pictures, and will probably (maybe?) get around to putting them online. If not, ask me to show you. They really are amazing. The fog made it impossible to see very far, but you could still see trees and grape vines coated in white. Unbelievable.

One morning we spent exploring the Hotel Deau, a hospital-turned-museum. It was once a hospital for the very poorest of folk, and was kept going by charitable contributions from nobility. It was apparently the chairty to donate to, because it was not a half-bad place-- some nice art, beautiful hospital beds, an enormous kitchen, and lots of big fireplaces.
Our last day in France was spent in Paris. We went to the l’orangerie, where we saw Monet’s Waterlillies and other beautiful impressionist art. I think I’m quite a big fan of Renoir in particular, actually. And of course the water lilies. We had one last crepe, one last stroll through Notre Dame, visited the Cluny (I’m in love with the tapestries of the Lady and the Unicorn!) and investigated an English bookstore. Then we had dinner at a fondue place and waved goodbye to the city. What a trip it has been! There may not have been enough Deux Cheveau (charming, yet decidedly ugly little cars) for my dad’s liking, but I am not complaining one it. It was all wonderful. I’m so glad that I got the opportunity to travel for five weeks with my dad and have him show me the South of France (never Southern France). Couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide and travel companion!