I'm headed to the fabled south of France with the hope of doing tours to small villages and the fabled flamingoes in the Camargue. None of which eventuates. The season has yet to begin. No tours, no buses and I'm not ready to tackle driving alone in France. I accept my fate and I'm off to #Nimes. Le Marquis de la Baume hotel is a lovely old medieval residence, it’s slightly Spanish looking with an open section internally and wonderful stone external staircases. The room is huge and I panic thinking I’ve booked the grand suite and won’t be able to pay for it, but no, it’s cheap. And armed once again with a map, I wind through the little streets and start to relax, this is more me. A bit more warm and inviting. Even on the train trip, the scenery changed dramatically, green trees instead of the leafless varieties, rocky outcrops, the southern land coming into view. I find a cafe from 1850, Cortois, salon du the, it’s stunning inside, mirrors, beautiful coloured glass surrounds and the best quiche I’ve ever had. And then I ask the waitress where the arena is and she points down a street, I’m suspicious but I follow her direction and there it is, in the middle of the city just like the colosseum in Rome. It’s huge and well preserved, evidently it’s the oldest most used arena in the world. After Roman times it was lived in by the wealthy and after that homes were built in the compound and again lived in for centuries. I wander around it’s circumference and then find another street leading off to the Maison Carree, a temple from 1st century, beautifully preserved and again, used by dignitaries, as a house after Christianity came into being. Now it shows a film of the beginnings of Nemus, the latin name for Nimes; an interesting history. Caesar asked for five hundred men to help him fight in northern Gaul and a man from Nimes went as leader and returned victorious twenty five years later with a chest of gold as payment for his valour, to build a glorious city.
I look for a restaurant close and whilst I’m standing in front of one, a determined waiter interrupts to tell me how great his restaurant is; tired from walking, I accept. The decor is atrocious! Big pink glowing balls under tables, black glass bowls on the edge of the tables, a piano, cheap lights strung across the roof. The food is shocking and only three of us are seated, two Americans who spend the meal talking on their phones. I escape quickly and head back home, looking up to see a full moon hovering over the Cathedral, ghost white against a pale pink dusk.
The next morning, I set out to find the gardens, Les Jardins de la Fontaine, full of ruins and meandering pathways. I find the famous #Calissons, little almond and fruit diamond shaped pastries and I buy one in it's own beautiful little tin. I find Les Halles, the markets and finally I have a fantastic meal of rabbit in a mustard sauce with a pile of fresh tiny vegetables, a hunk of wholemeal bread, a wonderful fruity wine. I wander the aisles admiring the artful arrangements of the vegetables; the deeply coloured tomatoes that look like ceramic ones with a glossy glaze, the different kinds of asparagus, beautiful little pies with inscriptions on top. That night I have another bad meal of duck that is so bloody that I can't eat it, I send it back knowing that the chef will be shaking his head over my uncouth tourist tastes and it comes out so tough that I can't even cut it. I think they microwaved it. I give up, drain my wine and leave.
Depression ascends again, I wander home trying to work out why, when I have so much to be joyful about. Maybe it was the surgery that suddenly brought to light that I am ageing, that life can change in the flutter of a butterflies wing, fragile and dependent upon the human breath. I had no concept of age until that surgery and now it is upon me, I can feel it breathing down my neck. Hurry, experience, have as much as you can before it's too late. But apart of me is too tired, too lacklustre to start new projects, to embroider new threads, except for this escape which I suppose is a form of renewal.
I'm truffle hunting, trying to find the scent of that person who had no fear and now has constant anxiety, whose breathing is cautious and sometimes held too long. Such a weird place to find myself. I write about this in the open courtyard, the moon slowly showing itself over me.
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