Arles, France

Johnny Jones, June 2000

After stumbling around in rudimentary German and using Spanish to get us by in Italy, Amy couldn't wait to get to a country where she spoke the language: France. The first thing we noticed, in the tunnel under the train tracks, was the roller-bladers schussing by. If you like to roller-blade, go to France. We saw roller-bladers even on the crowded streets of Paris between the Louvre and the Notre Dame, dodging in and out between the pedestrians.

The next thing I noticed was that (as earlier that day in Italy) we had to pay about a quarter for a squatty potty.

Never heard of one? Use your imagination. On either side of a shallow sink-like impression in the floor are two very large corrugated metal feet. It was evident that not everyone stood there, because that area flushed. We got more conscientious about using the toilet on the train -- it emptied on the track, and it smelled worse the farther the train went, but it had a seat.

In France, those seats were orange, or green, or blue; I don't remember seeing a white or black one in the country. And the standard color for toilet paper was bright pink.

It took us five trains and thirteen hours to go from Riomaggiore to Arles, longer than we expected. We didn't realize our travel day was a French holiday, the celebration of the end of World War II. We sat in different compartments. When we got towards out station, Bryan and I tripped and excused ourselves over people and their luggage in the aisles and the ends of the trains.

We were relieved to get to Arles, in the Provence area, just above the Riviera towns you've heard about -- Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. Arles was on the Rhone River, and our room overlooked it. Sounds nice. It was, until you got close to the river. On the concrete and stone embankments, some of which were from Roman times, people walked their dogs. There was evidence of that everywhere; you had to watch where you stepped. We learned that people say it's good luck to step in it. It preferred my own luck to that, and anyway, I think it's just a good way to make a positive out of some not only yucky but inevitable.

Arles is famous for its Roman ruins. We saw both an amphitheater and a 21,000 seat forum, both of which are still being used. They were setting up for a rock concert in the amphitheater. They hold bullfights at the forum.

The architecture and history was fantastic, but there were no plaques or guides to help you understand what you were seeing. There was much more explanatory information at Dillard Mill than there was at this historic treasure. That was disappointing.

We got over the disappointment when we ate at the creperie. I'm afraid we're still whining about the difference in the quality of the food here, especially the breads and cheeses. Chip is trying to use our bread machine to replicate the baguettes businessmen tucked under their arms at lunch times, and that we enjoyed for breakfasts.

French waiters have a reputation for snobbery. Our waiter at the Hotel Regence belied that; he was the best waiter we have ever had. He loved to serve: his posture bespoke that calling. But he did so with authority. The first morning I brought some books down; he saw me and placed a chair beside me, where he set my books. He was saying, "You don't put books on the table in my care," but with such a sweet spirit. The next morning he remembered all our special requests: Bryan's chocolate, my cold milk.

After seeing the Roman ruins, we shopped in striped tents. The colorful fabrics, with sunny yellows and bright blues were worth taking back in our packs, along with small bags of pot pourri. filled with lavender grown in the area.

Our next stop was among the best on our trip: The thousand-year-old monastery at Aubazine.