Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part III

Arles Amphitheatre (c) Lucas Miguel

Part I

Part II

The following day, I have plans to reconnect with Élise, an old acquaintance I met back in Strasbourg when I was a member of a community Gospel choir. We haven’t seen each other since before the pandemic. Élise relocated from Alsace further South to switch careers and enter the culinary world. On my recent trip to Strasbourg, her name came up whilst reminiscing with various friends who are still connected to the choir.  For a chorale anorak like me, Élise is a dream to sing with. Her good musical instincts, especially her knack for harmonies, makes her self-sufficient in that she holds her own when others with less musicality flounder. In my ideal chorale scenario, the group would be solely composed of Élises.  After my recent nostalgic trip in Strasbourg, I reach out to Élise to let her know she’s been on my mind and in my conversations. She mentions that she now lives near Arles, which turns out to be a mere 20 minute train ride away from Avignon. (Élise has moved around Southern France a lot in the intervening years).  I’ll not only have a chance to catch up with Élise but also explore another part of the region. The stars have aligned. 

When Élise meets me at Arles station, I notice straight away that she’s grown her hair out and left behind the fuchsia tint, returning to her natural colour. (It was apparently at the behest of some snooty Michelin-star establishment where she once worked). The industrial surroundings of the station mask what turns out to be a very picturesque bohemian old town. Iconography of Vincent Van Gogh is everywhere. The Dutch artist made Arles his home for a time. Élise and I initially grab a quick bite whilst we walk and talk. Considering the seven year hiatus, it doesn’t feel organic to catch up this way. I also require some readjustment to Élise’ at times (unintentionally) brusque mannerisms. We hover around the vast amphitheatre ruins, parts of it now apparently an improvised toilet judging from the odour, and follow the route of other remains of antiquity.  Arles is the kind of town that I’d like to come and get lost in on a solo trip. Whether I’ll squeeze it in this time is doubtful.

Arles waterfront (c) Baptiste Buisson

I suggest Élise and I find a café to sit and talk properly. We settle on an establishment that serves tasteless ice tea and bissap drinks. Nonetheless, as I thought, being stationary helps us to relax more. I summarise (ahem) the peaks and troughs of my Belgian experience. Élise equally recounts the antics of the merciless world of gastronomy. They say clichés always have a grain of truth, and abusive behaviour by senior chefs seems far too commonplace. 

After a couple of hours, we take the scenic route back to Arles station along the banks of the Rhône. The discussion now turns to our much reduced singing activities since leaving Strasbourg. Whilst Élise has at least acquired a new hobby learning the clarinet, neither of us has found a suitable choral opportunity since our Strasbourg days. 

We part ways at Arles station. On top of my 40 minutes early arrival, my return train is half an hour late. That’s precious time I could have spent discovering more of Arles on my own.

That evening, it’s back to ÔCargo for a more propitious eating experience. I opt this time for the very reasonably priced chicken tagine from the Tunisian restaurateurs. There’s a DJ set from 8pm, not that you would know it from the empty dancefloor. The music policy is reggaeton, Afrobeats and uncategorisable remixes of 2000s Pop-R&B hits by the likes of Nelly Furtado and Fergie.  The set is one of my motivations for passing by this evening. However, between the lack of engagement by other punters and the fact the selection isn’t compelling me to hit the dancefloor solo, I return to the accommodation earlier than scheduled.

Nîmes (c) Alix Guerin

The following day, just over the half-way mark of my trip, I’ve scheduled a visit to nearby Nîmes; another old Roman town and the home of denim (De + Nîmes). It takes me a while to drag myself out of bed. I pass out the night before, rather than going to bed properly, which has a knock-on effect. I feel especially fatigued. I’ve promised myself some patisserie to be eaten at a leisurely pace in a local boulangerie. I am making up for the missed opportunity on the morning of my birthday itself.

For the first time on this trip, it rains – lightly and intermittent. By the time I arrive at Avignon Central, according to some mildly insolent station staff, the next direct train will get me to Nîmes well after 2pm. It’ll be an express visit, indeed. I have evening plans to catch the JAM Tremplin contest in central Brussels, the only festival event in which I’ll participate. 

I make a beeline for the Nîmes arenas through an attractive avenue. I initially quibble over whether to pay the 11 euros entrance fee. I’m all the more hesitant having forgotten my student card back at the accommodation, which would have saved me a whole two euros. I can hear my mum’s voice telling me to repent of my miserly ways and seize the moment. I obey.

I’ve arrived just in time for a guided tour. The young woman at the box office asks where I’m from. I rue the Anglophone intonation that always gives me away. She reassures me that it's a good accent. Clearly not if she can pick up on me not being a 'native'. She apparently doubts my capabilities. The tour is in French, by the way. Fine. I live in a Francophone country.

The guided tour takes us through the arrival of the Romans, the establishment of the town of Nemausus (Nîmes' Roman appellation, named after a god) en route from Italy to Spain, and the social stratification of Roman society, as reflected in the seating arrangements of the amphitheatre. The guide recruits volunteers to re-enact some of the games that would have taken place in the arenas, including simulated animal hunts and specifically the gladiator show-downs. I learn that there were three gladiator eras of which during the last, a ban was imposed on fighting to the death or the winner being finished off by the Roman authorities, as would have happened in the earlier phases. I'll admit, with sheepishness, that I occasionally miss what the guide is saying or some of the high-speed exchanges with other 'native' tourists. Having lived in Francophone contexts for the best part of a decade, of course my linguistic skills have not stood still. I won't allow them to. However, I'm not one of those geniuses who has managed to acquire a could-have-fooled-me, near-native level in another language. I'm reminded of this more often than I'd like.

After an hour, the guide leaves us to our own devices. Those of us who can clamber over the enormous steps to the top of the amphitheatre are rewarded with a birdseye view of parts of Nîmes.  It does set off my mild vertigo, so I don’t hang around too long. 

Nîmes Cathedral (c) Youssef Jounaid

I’m mindful of the time. I have a long evening ahead and want to return to my accommodation before heading back out for dinner. La Maison Carrée, a very well preserved Roman temple, is a short walk from the arenas. I hear that visiting the inside is not worth the ticket price, so I keep it swiftly moving.

I stop by for some quiet time at the nearby St. Paul’s church. I see lots of meandering side streets and can’t resist the typical urge to get lost down them. My curiosity pays off. I stumble upon St. Castor’s Cathedral and some attractive water features. I regret that I don’t have the chance to check out Les Jardins de la Fontaine, Tour Magne or the ancient aqueduct, Pont du Gard, on the outskirts of Nîmes. Alas, time is of the essence. My get up isn’t the best for all this walking, either. My skirt is too long and my sandals too high.

My instincts correctly lead me back to Nîmes very sophisticated-looking, romanesque main station.

I couldn’t have timed it better to catch my return train to Avignon. I’m blessed with good connections all the way to Didi’s place. I decide to stop off at the local Lidl en route. On my way to the shop, I notice someone walking close behind me. It’s one of my pet peeves. I slow down so they can take over. It’s then that I notice it’s some older white creep who was eyeing me up on the bus earlier in the trip. He has no intention of taking over. He also happens to be going to Lidl. Funny that. 

The remains of the Roman arenas in Nîmes (c) Hongbin

I grab my purchase and fast track through the self-service. I rush back to the accommodation as quickly as my high sandals will carry me, constantly checking to see if I’m being followed.

As usual, this minor incident makes me self-conscious about my shape. I remind myself that for men who feel entitled to ogle women – or worse – there’s no ‘appropriate’ way to dress. Intellectually, I know the problem is theirs and not mine. Emotionally, I’m still wrestling with a kind of internalised misogyny that blames women for men’s sexual misconduct. More generally, from early on in my short séjour avignonnais I’m reminded that in France, la drague est le sport national. I’m made very aware of attention from the male species that I don’t consistently receive in Belgium. Fortunately, most of it isn’t as unnerving as the Lidl stalker.

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko