I will again have to rush this letter, as I need to get to bed now that I have finished a chapter of the novella that I am translating. I hope to write a conference proposal and the bulk of a grant proposal tomorrow, when I will be visiting Arles. This is going to be an exciting, rushed time!
My first notes for today are, regrettably, about language. Firstly, I may have to retire the phrase "Je m'excuse" (Excuse me.). Just the other day, in Orange, I used it to mean, "I'm sorry for having bumped into you," and an old woman took it to mean that I needed help finding my way. While I did not mind her giving me directions that I did not need, I was disappointed that the phrase was so far from serving my intended purpose from it. I am thinking to try to start sticking to the universal "Pardon," which seems to mean both "Sorry for bumping into you" and "Get the hell out of my way."
My other point about language is a simple one: one can often cover up the paucity of one's vocabulary in French be relying on English cognates from the language. For example, I recently wanted to describe Vancouver's climate as "temperate," and, having no idea how to say that in French, I referred to it as "clement." I similarly have no idea how to say "sign up for," but I know the word "matriculation." If I want to say anything about cliffs over the next few days, I am going to give the word "escarpment" a go, hoping that the 's' in the word is not replaced by a wonky accent in French that renders its pronunciation entirely different.
What else to say about Avignon's surroundings? While Rouen was culturally as interesting as Avignon, &c., the north of France cannot vaguely compare with the white-grey cliffs and soft, unfiltered sunlight of the south, the most beautiful non-mountainous part of the world that I have ever seen. The Avignon region combines dense tree cover, distant mountains, rolling hills, and bare rock faces: it is like a lusher northern California. The Loire Valley was pleasant to visit, but it was, in a sense, tame and watered-down compared to the south of France, with its wild, dusty, luxuriant landscapes. Avignon is at least as pleasant as any other part of France that I have seen -- more pleasant, actually, considering its landscapes - and it is also awe-inspiring.
I would describe the Pont du Gard, but I have to make a quick remark before I start: the other day I saw the first sacrilegious representation of a religious woman, probably the Virgin Mary, of this trip. This woman was wearing a long blue scarf, a sort of wrap, which, while fetching when seen up-close, appeared from a distance to be a pair of high-waisted bell-bottoms, surely inappropriate apparel for a saint. Perhaps it behooves me to tell Avignon's authorities about their sculptor's mistake; perhaps, in my ignorance of religion, I have underestimated the centrality of sky-blue bell-bottoms to the version of Christianity that is practiced here. Whatever the case, I praise the Virgin Mary for having been a couple of thousand years ahead of the curve in her adoption of such flamboyant habiliments.
The Pont du Gard is the most spectacular Roman bridge still standing. As such, it would be worth describing in depth, and my wanderings near it with a geologist whom I met on the bus there would also be worth describing, but, alas, I have no time for that; I will have to tell you about it in person later. Some notable things that happened while I was there: I looked up at a swallow and pitied it for not knowing that surrounding cities, such as Orange, Arles, and Nimes, existed; I looked down at an ant and pitied it for not even being able to see the Pont du Gard; and I saw a spectacular orange-and-neon-green butterfly. I met tourists from all over the world (not really: France, Germany, England, and Kansas City); I sat completely at ease, enjoying the experience of being there, as I had a few hours to kill before the bus to Nimes and my companion for the morning had suggested that enjoying one's experience was more important than snapping photos of cultural monuments; nearer the water, I saw tourists picnicking and cliff-jumping (from five or six meters, and with flotation devices -- they were smart (and part of a tour group of sorts)), and I heard the coolest bird that I have ever heard, a sort of cross between a cricket's chirrup and a horse's neigh; and I saw a couple of Asian tourists reach the viewpoint where I was sitting, turn around, take one photo, and immediately leave. Those are the kinds of tourists with whom I could get along!
I may as well give the Pont du Gard a shot, as I am on a roll, do not yet feel tired, and do not feel much pressure to try to make this any good. The Pont Du Gard spans several hundred yards across a narrow river (the narrowness of which, the geologist said, was one of the reasons for its having been built as it was) and broad riverbed. It has three levels, two of them bridge-like and the third the conduit, one assumes, for water. It is scores of times taller than any human. It is made of enormous stones, some of them chiseled to fit the arches' curves. It was made by hordes of slaves. Its rock is pink-white, if I remember right, or, perhaps, yellow. There is nothing around it, save for a few tourist buildings, but the hills and river. It is an enormous monument built seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and it provided an entire, thriving city, Nimes, with water.
The bus ride to Nimes was just as interesting as usual, as it took us through more ancient towns built of stone, and Nimes was, predictably, spectacular. It has one of the biggest arenas in all of France, the remains of a temple, a huge waterway abutted by a sculpture garden, a massive Roman archway, and a tower on the top of a hill that served to tell people, "Romans were here." I saw the whole of Nimes within a couple of hours, as I had to do to make the last direct bus back to Avignon, and enjoyed yet another fabulous bus ride, this time past clumps of lavender, which is just as beautiful in real life as in pictures, and a field of sunflowers. I saw another bunch of the same white birds, I believe, that I saw on the way from Toulouse to Avignon; they looked like very skinny seagulls with thinner beaks (of which I did not get a good look) and crescent-shaped wings, like a swallow has. I also saw a smallish grey heron, spectacularly colored, and, just for good measure, three or four stone-hewn castles, which were more impressive than those along the Loire in that they were not manicured but solid and unimpregnable. I also saw a factory rising out of one town and started to wonder why Roman ruins were given so much priority over factories as cultural monuments. Perhaps they are said to convey higher values; what are those? They have more aesthetic value than factories, to be sure, but they do not necessarily tell us more about the way in which people live than factories do, although they give us a better idea of how people used to live. I guess that, while I am just as drawn to the traditional idea of culture's encompassing the arts, churches, cathedrals, old buildings, ancient ruins, &c., as any other tourist, I wonder if our sense of culture is skewed or if we are misusing the term.
Some generalizations from the past few days: I saw a woman walking over cobblestones in Avignon, her ankles apparently intact, but I did not say anyone in high heels, regrettably, at the Pont du Gard, which has some wonderful walking, as it is set amongst hills. I walked up a marble staircase today in Nimes (I forgot to mention its extant forum or temple - I do not know which.). As I had suspected, since I had only seen the bottom price of those listed at the gas station the other day, I saw the price of diesel fuel, and not regular fuel, yesterday; as it turns out, regular fuel is roughly 1.50 Euros per liter, or almost one and a half times that of Vancouver. People who know more about trees might be able to help me identify those of Avignon: they have papery bark and all of their branches at about eight or ten feet from the ground, at which point their trunks stop (i.e., the trunks turn into branches at that point); they have copious branches and leaves that, I believe, are called "complex," as each of them has lots of little points. They probably grow to around thirty (twenty-five?) feet in height.
Finally, I heard the most poetic ejaculation of my trip today as I was walking past a young man who asked his mother, "Does this river go to, like, the Mediterranean or something?" I looked it up later, and it did, indeed, turn out to, like, go to the Mediterranean. I only wish that I could have come up with such an elegant way of saying it on my own.
It seems a pity not to end my email on that note, but I completely forgot three others. Firstly, I saw men playing bochi (sp?) (BAH-chee) balls in Nimes with a tape measure today. Secondly, while raising dogs here seems to be fairly popular, people have no idea to train them. They often strain to walk ahead of their owners and bark at every other dog that they see. Finally, I saw a poster for a dialogue in the aims of finding similarities between Christianity and Buddhism as I walked back to my hostel from the bus stop. Avignon is, like, a forward-thinking city, or something!
My first notes for today are, regrettably, about language. Firstly, I may have to retire the phrase "Je m'excuse" (Excuse me.). Just the other day, in Orange, I used it to mean, "I'm sorry for having bumped into you," and an old woman took it to mean that I needed help finding my way. While I did not mind her giving me directions that I did not need, I was disappointed that the phrase was so far from serving my intended purpose from it. I am thinking to try to start sticking to the universal "Pardon," which seems to mean both "Sorry for bumping into you" and "Get the hell out of my way."
My other point about language is a simple one: one can often cover up the paucity of one's vocabulary in French be relying on English cognates from the language. For example, I recently wanted to describe Vancouver's climate as "temperate," and, having no idea how to say that in French, I referred to it as "clement." I similarly have no idea how to say "sign up for," but I know the word "matriculation." If I want to say anything about cliffs over the next few days, I am going to give the word "escarpment" a go, hoping that the 's' in the word is not replaced by a wonky accent in French that renders its pronunciation entirely different.
What else to say about Avignon's surroundings? While Rouen was culturally as interesting as Avignon, &c., the north of France cannot vaguely compare with the white-grey cliffs and soft, unfiltered sunlight of the south, the most beautiful non-mountainous part of the world that I have ever seen. The Avignon region combines dense tree cover, distant mountains, rolling hills, and bare rock faces: it is like a lusher northern California. The Loire Valley was pleasant to visit, but it was, in a sense, tame and watered-down compared to the south of France, with its wild, dusty, luxuriant landscapes. Avignon is at least as pleasant as any other part of France that I have seen -- more pleasant, actually, considering its landscapes - and it is also awe-inspiring.
I would describe the Pont du Gard, but I have to make a quick remark before I start: the other day I saw the first sacrilegious representation of a religious woman, probably the Virgin Mary, of this trip. This woman was wearing a long blue scarf, a sort of wrap, which, while fetching when seen up-close, appeared from a distance to be a pair of high-waisted bell-bottoms, surely inappropriate apparel for a saint. Perhaps it behooves me to tell Avignon's authorities about their sculptor's mistake; perhaps, in my ignorance of religion, I have underestimated the centrality of sky-blue bell-bottoms to the version of Christianity that is practiced here. Whatever the case, I praise the Virgin Mary for having been a couple of thousand years ahead of the curve in her adoption of such flamboyant habiliments.
The Pont du Gard is the most spectacular Roman bridge still standing. As such, it would be worth describing in depth, and my wanderings near it with a geologist whom I met on the bus there would also be worth describing, but, alas, I have no time for that; I will have to tell you about it in person later. Some notable things that happened while I was there: I looked up at a swallow and pitied it for not knowing that surrounding cities, such as Orange, Arles, and Nimes, existed; I looked down at an ant and pitied it for not even being able to see the Pont du Gard; and I saw a spectacular orange-and-neon-green butterfly. I met tourists from all over the world (not really: France, Germany, England, and Kansas City); I sat completely at ease, enjoying the experience of being there, as I had a few hours to kill before the bus to Nimes and my companion for the morning had suggested that enjoying one's experience was more important than snapping photos of cultural monuments; nearer the water, I saw tourists picnicking and cliff-jumping (from five or six meters, and with flotation devices -- they were smart (and part of a tour group of sorts)), and I heard the coolest bird that I have ever heard, a sort of cross between a cricket's chirrup and a horse's neigh; and I saw a couple of Asian tourists reach the viewpoint where I was sitting, turn around, take one photo, and immediately leave. Those are the kinds of tourists with whom I could get along!
I may as well give the Pont du Gard a shot, as I am on a roll, do not yet feel tired, and do not feel much pressure to try to make this any good. The Pont Du Gard spans several hundred yards across a narrow river (the narrowness of which, the geologist said, was one of the reasons for its having been built as it was) and broad riverbed. It has three levels, two of them bridge-like and the third the conduit, one assumes, for water. It is scores of times taller than any human. It is made of enormous stones, some of them chiseled to fit the arches' curves. It was made by hordes of slaves. Its rock is pink-white, if I remember right, or, perhaps, yellow. There is nothing around it, save for a few tourist buildings, but the hills and river. It is an enormous monument built seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and it provided an entire, thriving city, Nimes, with water.
The bus ride to Nimes was just as interesting as usual, as it took us through more ancient towns built of stone, and Nimes was, predictably, spectacular. It has one of the biggest arenas in all of France, the remains of a temple, a huge waterway abutted by a sculpture garden, a massive Roman archway, and a tower on the top of a hill that served to tell people, "Romans were here." I saw the whole of Nimes within a couple of hours, as I had to do to make the last direct bus back to Avignon, and enjoyed yet another fabulous bus ride, this time past clumps of lavender, which is just as beautiful in real life as in pictures, and a field of sunflowers. I saw another bunch of the same white birds, I believe, that I saw on the way from Toulouse to Avignon; they looked like very skinny seagulls with thinner beaks (of which I did not get a good look) and crescent-shaped wings, like a swallow has. I also saw a smallish grey heron, spectacularly colored, and, just for good measure, three or four stone-hewn castles, which were more impressive than those along the Loire in that they were not manicured but solid and unimpregnable. I also saw a factory rising out of one town and started to wonder why Roman ruins were given so much priority over factories as cultural monuments. Perhaps they are said to convey higher values; what are those? They have more aesthetic value than factories, to be sure, but they do not necessarily tell us more about the way in which people live than factories do, although they give us a better idea of how people used to live. I guess that, while I am just as drawn to the traditional idea of culture's encompassing the arts, churches, cathedrals, old buildings, ancient ruins, &c., as any other tourist, I wonder if our sense of culture is skewed or if we are misusing the term.
Some generalizations from the past few days: I saw a woman walking over cobblestones in Avignon, her ankles apparently intact, but I did not say anyone in high heels, regrettably, at the Pont du Gard, which has some wonderful walking, as it is set amongst hills. I walked up a marble staircase today in Nimes (I forgot to mention its extant forum or temple - I do not know which.). As I had suspected, since I had only seen the bottom price of those listed at the gas station the other day, I saw the price of diesel fuel, and not regular fuel, yesterday; as it turns out, regular fuel is roughly 1.50 Euros per liter, or almost one and a half times that of Vancouver. People who know more about trees might be able to help me identify those of Avignon: they have papery bark and all of their branches at about eight or ten feet from the ground, at which point their trunks stop (i.e., the trunks turn into branches at that point); they have copious branches and leaves that, I believe, are called "complex," as each of them has lots of little points. They probably grow to around thirty (twenty-five?) feet in height.
Finally, I heard the most poetic ejaculation of my trip today as I was walking past a young man who asked his mother, "Does this river go to, like, the Mediterranean or something?" I looked it up later, and it did, indeed, turn out to, like, go to the Mediterranean. I only wish that I could have come up with such an elegant way of saying it on my own.
It seems a pity not to end my email on that note, but I completely forgot three others. Firstly, I saw men playing bochi (sp?) (BAH-chee) balls in Nimes with a tape measure today. Secondly, while raising dogs here seems to be fairly popular, people have no idea to train them. They often strain to walk ahead of their owners and bark at every other dog that they see. Finally, I saw a poster for a dialogue in the aims of finding similarities between Christianity and Buddhism as I walked back to my hostel from the bus stop. Avignon is, like, a forward-thinking city, or something!
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| Those specks beneath the second row of arches are people. |
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