Sur le pont d'Avignon

Day 12 – September 10, 2008

Avignon has been one of those cities that I've longed to see for years and years—although I was never quite sure what I would see when and if I got there. I knew it had an aqueduct and that it was in Provence. And here we are!

When we arrived, we immediately found “la gare,” and began to look for the hotel. Robin called and told the concierge that we were in front of la gare and asked how to get to the hotel. He told us to look for the “famous bridge,” as if we would know what that meant. We immediately began looking for a “pont” (bridge) sign and found Pont Avignon and also a sign directing us to the Mercure Hotel. We turned as the sign directed and pulled into what appeared to be a dark dungeon that had a “parking” sign above its entrance. We saw a door that read “Mercure” and Robin pulled up on the sidewalk (again) and went in to check it out. When he came out he said the hotel was on the other side of “the square.” We reached our parking destination, parked, pulled out our luggage and headed for the door, only to encounter many very steep steps! Oh, my! We dragged everything up into the light and my first thought was that I was at the Vatican—a vast cobblestone square about the size of two football fields with beautiful, huge stone buildings enclosing it. Robin told me later that, in a way, I was at the Vatican—that this had once been the Palace of the Pope for several hundred years. We had no clear directions for finding our hotel but, eventually, we dragged our belongings over the cobblestones, down a little hill, and, alas, we found a busy, small metropolis within these walls. Cars, motor scooters, restaurants by the dozens, shops, a large bank, etc. Once again, we are tucked inside a fortress. And we're staying for two nights!

For our anniversary we had dinner on the street once again. The atmosphere is so pleasant when we dine that way, and I wish we would think about doing it more at home. In Richmond, we have few outdoor dining opportunities. Robin happily ordered paella (we're close to Spain), one of his favorites. Sitting and watching the people and the energy and culture is one of the best parts of being here.

Yesterday as we approached our destination, I no longer could compare France to the Shenandoah Valley, as I mentioned in earlier blogs. Instead, Southern France reminded me of the El Paso, Texas, area. Only I know—even as I am thinking that—that the Mediterranean is not far beyond what I see.