Missed Purple.

Posted by on July 31, 2015

Avignon has no professional anything team or any particular facility to actually do sports that I saw, unless cigarettes with espresso are considered competitive. Though, the unofficial mascot of Provence should be a sprig of lavender with wimpy appendages and bug-eyes. The entire province is dotted with Roman constructed leftovers, reconstituted to ten-euro general places of disinterest with roped off entryways. History buffs must grimace at each site, having to drop coin to see an empty building with no ancient or even faux adornment. Again, get the audio guide or you will be staring at age sans understanding.

Greed from tourist cash has a grip on this place. There’s no “local produce” besides veggies and fruits by the motorways.

The public transport situation was a bit dire, so driving opened the small villages for spectation. My recollections here will be mainly mini cars, the type you can see Magnus bench pressing on the World’s Strongest Man series, wrenching around hideous curves at 90km/h. After a day of riding the break, white knuckled, I was also up to caliber and silently cursing the impotents in the way. The first stage of the caravan journey terminated at Valensole for some hours, the hometown of lavender that has since turned to a photo op town for tourists. At the Brasserie with the fewest diners, I tried the canard with honey and lavender sauce and some rustic sausage – both regional specialities I since learned. Tasty table wine.

It’s quaint and silent besides the Apple/Samsung default shutter noises; less and less cameras now. The selfsame purple buds dried and picked for oils, soaps, shampoos or whatever a month or more gone. Water’s pure enough to drink from the old pubic fountain. Ancient? When does an edifice attain that title? It had to be a few centuries at least.

The puny motor screaming up 60 degree inclined curves, seeing the cloudless blue diagonally above and through the windshield sometimes doubled my BP. Precipice to the right and rock face and other minis blurring past at the left should discount those that lack sternness or with aortic disorder from  

Which is bluer, the sky or the water?

even attempting this climb. Over the breech, Tarheel blue looked down shocked at the Lac de Sainte-Croix (lake) that rivaled even its boundless azure. It’s a 2-hour drive without regret to swim and just look on silently. After a period of the mid-afternoon sun in the water, it was the same roads back to the walled Avignon.

In the old city area, vagrancy is an issue and Meth by the looks of their grins. The homeless beggars sleeping behind buildings are all accompanied by dogs whose function are unapparent. They roam the Main Street, sitting astride banisters and reclining in arched doorways out of the sun. Are they failed actors on the famed Provence festival circuit or unable to seek out work? Drunken gangs of “punks” (I saw more than one mohawk) and motor scooters sans mufflers create a clamor that reverberates from wall to wall on the small streets makes sleeping with open windows unfortunately impossible. I can’t say I have the best impression of this place.

You won’t see the purple unless you come before July.

Last modified on August 5, 2015

Categories: General Mess
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