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When you are visiting the Provence villages, try to combine your visits with the local market day to get the most out of your experience. Provençals take their markets (marché) very seriously. These are not just places to buy the … Continue reading
Time moves very slowly in Provence. It is this part of the world that J.B. Priestley had in mind when he declared, “A good holiday is one that is spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours.” This is not to say that Provençals never take the concept of time seriously. Come lunch hour and all the outdoor cafés fill up rapidly with locals even before the poor tourist has finished weighing his options. The point is: take it easy when you are in Provence and savour (or cultivate) that unfamiliar feeling that you have all the time in the world. It will help you deal with the locals, bless their friendly hearts.
Even before I start writing about Provence, the editor asks me to steer clear of Peter Mayle. But it is hard to write about Provence without a mention of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The man has a lot to answer for, certainly for having brought the whole world rushing to once-sleepy Provence with his books on the good life of this region. They came from everywhere in coachloads to get away from it all, thereby bringing it all with them. Provence has, thankfully, survived it and—in a most un-Frenchlike manner—even made good business out of it.
Driving is the best—and perhaps the only—way to get around the region. Though guidebooks insist that there are buses, I saw none in my time there. When you are headed to Provence, don’t make that packed itinerary with a list of sightseeing options. For one, there are none; Provence itself is one large sight to see. Ignore the French Riviera in the deep south, the beaches where the rich and famous frolic (save that for a dreary winter) and instead head for the villages in the heart of this region.
Once here, zoom in on what is the prettiest part, along the Luberon mountains. Olive gardens and in season, lavender fields, hilltop villages, old churches, narrow winding roads and people who leave you to yourself for the most part. There’s the beautiful light made famous by Van Gogh, Renoir and Cézanne. And those weekly markets. It can be hard to make choices since the countryside is littered with attractive villages, all of them equally enticing. Just hire the car, pick up a map and begin your drive.
The best place to begin is Avignon by the Rhone river, a Unesco world heritage site. Avignon is technically a town but the heart of the walled city is still small enough to be explored on foot. This town became home to the Pope sometime in the fourteenth century and stayed that way for the next hundred years for succeeding popes. So, the main attraction for most visitors remains the Palais Des Papes. The large square in front of the palace is where buskers perform during season, with small souvenir stalls spread in the lanes around it. Wander around the small lanes of the town to be unfailingly surprised: I found a shop called Patchouli peddling what I can only call Indian Exotica and a quaint bookshop named after Shakespeare.
Even if you are not in Avignon on a market day, just head to Les Halles, the indoor fresh-food hall in the centre of town. Pick up some salad, cheese, bread and pasta and head to Pont D’Avignon, the broken Roman bridge over the Rhone, and have yourself a great picnic lunch by its banks.
If, like me, you grew up reading Asterix comics, you probably think the Romans spent all their time saying Ave! to Caesar and having fabulous orgies. Apparently they did a little bit more, like building picturesque (and extremely useful) bridges through the countryside. Case in point: the Pont du Gard, another world heritage spot, just over twenty-four kilometres west. This is Roman countryside, with the most famous of the remains in Arles, Nîmes and Orange.
Another day, head east towards what is classic Provence—the villages among the valleys and hills of the Vaucluse (administrative) department.
Gordes is pre-eminent among the beautiful villages of this region. And, perched on top of the Vaucluse plateau, Gordes knows this and preens prettily from its lofty height. Several movie stars and chic Parisians certainly think so and have made their homes here. The locals hold them in disdain and refuse to acknowledge these painters and potters. A large part of the village is a network of narrow alleys lined with shops on either side. Take time to explore the tenth-century château and chapel inside the village. Also visit the twelfth-century Senanque Abbey just outside Gordes. Cistercian monks still live there, producing honey and liqueurs when they’re not busy with their devotion.
From Gordes, drive northeast towards Roussillon, another must-see in the region. Roussillon means russet. And Roussillon is Provence in Technicolor, every building in one or the other shade of russet, rust, ochre, copper, auburn and salmon pink. This colour is the result of a natural pigment found in the quarries near the village. Once producing the most significant ochre deposit in the world, the quarry is now not in use and its cliffs and caves can be explored by foot. Roussillon is on the ridge of a cliff and is best seen in the evenings (so you might want to save this for the last visit of the day), as the sun begins to set and the earthy tones slowly turn golden.
Bonnieux is the next village on the circuit that I made, its great church visible from a distance even as you make your way towards it. The lower part of the village is typically Provençal, with its meandering narrow streets and arches leading into ancient buildings and seemingly secret gardens. Walk the steps leading up to the twelfth-century church, now out of use but worth the steep climb for the expansive views across the valley. The other attraction in Bonnieux is the Baker’s Museum, the Musée de la Boulangerie, a novelty even in a country where bakers reign supreme on the professional food chain.
On your way back to Avignon is Lacoste, often mentioned in the same breath as Bonnieux. Lacoste is a little village which sits looking at Bonnieux’s church on the one side and Count Marquis de Sade’s castle on the other. The castle has been bought by Pierre Cardin, who also presides over the local music and arts festival in summer.
Then there’s L’Isle sur la Sorgue. Sniff at the name, roll it slowly around your tongue and spit it out (good practice for any wine-tasting sessions you might have later). Begin your village-hopping from here the next day. It is not officially on the ‘prettiest villages’ list but the local PR machinery has made up for it by giving it the sobriquet ‘Venice of Provence’. Don’t let the cheesy name put you off. Go there and be charmed by the many canals and streams that meander all around the village.
This ‘island on the Sorgue (river)’ once had a thriving textile and paper industry, whose remains are visible in the large water wheels that line the canals. Apart from the weekly market on Sundays (one of the best and most famed in the region), the village also has over 300 permanent antique stalls. Also check at the Tourism Information Centre for current exhibitions at the Campredon Museum.
On the way to the next beautiful village lies St Rémy De Provence, pure Van Gogh country, on which more than 150 of his paintings are said to be based. Stop here if you have time or press on to Les Baux de Provence on the cliffs, which gets you back on the beautiful villages list. In the Middle Ages, the entire area was a fortress and the ruins of a castle are still to be found, with a view of the Alpilles, a limestone range across the valley. Outdoor cafés, souvenir shops, cobblestoned lanes, an old church—Les Baux ticks all the boxes.
Then again, which of the Provençal villages does not?
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Published in the March issue of Outlook Traveller. Detailed information on travel and the local markets here…
RIP George Whitman, the eccentric owner of the original Shakespeare & Co. bookshop in Paris’ Left Bank. The shop, now in its second avatar, celebrates sixty years of existence this year. And Whitman, who bought it from the original owner Sylvia Beach died last week, aged 98. I have been dying to write a story on this fabulous bookshop where I spent hours on my Paris trip – am waiting for an editor to bite buy. And I am really looking forward to writing that story. For now, just a pic.
Till then, let me tell you about the two other bookshops I spotted in Europe, named after Shakespeare. There are probably many more but these two for now. One in Prague – of all places, an English bookshop in an Eastern European country! Shakespeare in Prague – but then, I found Lennon there, so why not?
And the other, the really really charming one in Avignon in Provence – a small bookshop with what I can only call a typical French attitude. Look at the cheeky sign on the shop window. That said, the owner, who was closing for lunch, was nice enough to keep it open for ten minutes while I browsed and clicked and drooled. Go figure.
I found this in a small street somewhere in the heart of Avignon as I was wandering aimlessly one fine spring day. I probably would never be able to locate it if I were to try again. The shop also had a tiny cafe (I did try asking for a coffee but clearly, that was going too far!) and books stacked in some method-to-the-madness way that only the owner understood. In all, a lovely discovery.
I happened to read about the Femmes Eternelles photography show in Paris when I visited the city earlier this April. It was a collection of 80 portraits of women from all over the world by French photographer Olivier Martel. It said the venue was the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens – I had no idea where or what the railings were. And as it happened, nor did the staff at the park.
So we walked round and round the park, trying to find the venue, very sure that someone somewhere would know about such an exhibition. And just as we walked out in dismay at not finding it, we found it. The exhibition was just where it was supposed to be – on the railings that formed the fence of the park. There were scenes of women from Tunisia and Morocco to Russia and China. And in that evening light, the photographs were stunning – the best were those which seemed to fade into or melt into the surrounding greens or deep oranges.
Here are some of my favourites from the show:
In all this, India was a disappointment – a picture of giggly girls at the Miss India contest!
The bouquinistes – outdoor booksellers – of Paris, by the side of the Seine are one of my absolute favourite things about the city (the other are the parks). There are over 200 of them now in Paris and between them, I read somewhere, offer over 300000 old and new books and magazines. Recognized by their iconic green metal boxes and grumpy expressions (oh, but that’s everyone in Paris, so yeah, just the green metal boxes), these book stalls are a joy, especially when the weather is good and walking by the Seine is one of the most pleasurable activities imaginable on earth. Sure, there is a lot of junk but there is also the rare used book that is a collector’s – or even an avid reader’s – delight. Most of it is in French but I did find some English titles hidden away in between the piles.
These booksellers with their green boxes have been a part of the streetscape near the Seine since the 17th century. Sadly, they have been facing severe competition from the big bookshop chains but they soldier on. Many of them are now reduced to stocking kitschy posters and magnets meant for those annoying tourists (heh!). But under the strict trade regulation by the city council – to preserve this quintessential piece of Paris history – each seller is allowed to have a maximum of four boxes, out of which three are meant only for books. It is reassuring to know these bouquinistes will never suffer the same fate as that of old booksellers of South Mumbai’s fort area.
My own rare find was posters of Asterix – which I could not afford to buy, not by a long way – but the shopkeeper was one of those rare friendly faces who also spoke English and let me photograph them!
Joucas must be the weirdest place I have ever visited. This little village in Provence was not even in our horizon till I came across a mention of it as one of the prettiest villages in Provence in Rick Steves’ guide. And so I bullied gently persuaded my husband into taking the detour into Joucas on our way to Roussillon. We had a car and no fixed plans, so this did not make much difference to our day. That is anyway one of the joys of road travel – being able to alter your plans at will and do things you would otherwise not on a fixed itinerary.
When we arrived in Joucas, it was just after lunch and the sun was at its brightest and hottest so far. We parked near this emoty field and walked up to the village. There was not a single soul in sight – it was like a model village empty of all residents. There were these sculptures scattered all over the place, without any explanation whatsoever. At the end of a mild incline were these statues and a view of the hills far away. And a lovely church nearby, again desolate. We walked up and down trying to find something more about them but no. Possibly, it was siesta time – though that is really not an excuse since Rousillon was bursting with people when we arrived a bit later.
So was Rick Steves right? Was the village pretty? Sure, narrow and winding lanes, home windows with flowerpots and creepers over the walls, lovely views… but I am not so sure it was nicer than any of the others we stopped at. And funnily enough, there is no mention of these sculptures anywhere on the internet – I had forgotten the name of the village and was trying to find it online but no. Perhaps, the village has a different feel during the tourist season?
Do you have any such experience with a place desolate and somewhat mystifying?
That’s the great thing about street photography. There is always something interesting to shoot – and you don’t even have to go looking for it. It’s all happening, out there, in front of your eyes. If you keep your eyes open to the world, i.e.
Look what I found on a fine spring morning in Paris:
Don’t ask me! Mine but to shoot at sight – the story, I am sure you can imagine for yourself.
Head here for some great street photography from all over the world.
That is what I had called my piece on the falafel. I wrote a gushing tribute to it recently – a slightly different version of this piece was finally published.
“Yeh kya pakode hain?” my fellow journalist crinkled her nose at lunch at Falafel House in Istanbul. And I swear she looked around for tomato sauce to go with the falafels. But then, she thought hummus tasteless and the glorious Hagia Sophia boring, so I am not saying anything more.
Cut to Paris.
“Fine, go taste it for yourself” he said, giving me a raised-eyebrow look that added, “your fate.” This is shop 1, the L’As Du Fafafel, acknowledged generally by food bloggers as the best falafel joint in Paris. But I am all for the underdog. So I head to Mi-Va-Mi just across the road. I have no idea what it means but really, that lilting rhythmic sound of the name – who can resist it?
It would have been very easy to miss these stalls had I not gone looking for them. Tucked away in a narrow lane (Rue des Rosiers) in the hip Marais area in Paris, these two tiny outlets compete for business every single day. “Hmm mmm, the best in the world,” Mi-Va-Mi’s grinning chef tells me as he leads me by the hand inside his shop. Lunch time is far away and the crowds have not started pouring in, so waiters from both are standing out on the street, entertaining themselves by calling out to passers-by and trading insults.
So husband and I stuff our faces (literally, if you have seen the size that a fully loaded falafel sandwich can assume) at Mi-Va-Mi and then head to L’As to try theirs. My verdict? The underdog deserves better press – falafel at Mi-Va-Mi had just that extra tanginess that makes all the difference – and loads of grilled eggplant which appealed to the baingan-loving Telugu man that my husband is (really, what is it about baingan that can evoke such delight?) However, in terms of the vibe, it is L’As all the way. I was floored even before we placed our order, when the waiter who had serenaded us earlier unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his black T-shirt which read ‘I (red heart) L’as du Falafel’.
Both places have seating inside but the right thing to do – take it away, walk to a shaded open space and dig into it (ignoring the looks from people around you as they watch you lick that tahini from your chin). Then walk to the nearest bakery for dessert – or if you are in Paris, to the Berthillon ice-cream parlour on I’le Saint-Louis which sells, you guessed it, the best ice-cream in the world. Trust the Parisians to believe they have the best of everything. But in the case of the falafels, and only in that case, I agree with them.
I can understand why the falafel should appeal to my Indian sensibilities – it came cheap (6 euros), saved my starving vegetarian self and was sold by incredibly friendly people (walk around Paris for three days braving the surly waiters and you’ll know). In fact, it has so much going for it that it should appeal to any Indian. It does not pinch your pocket (even as you furiously make that rupee-euro conversion in your head), it has sinful fried stuff, it can be made spicy and it is best enjoyed messy. And any self-respecting mangophile will attest, messy is directly proportional to tasty. Spicy? Well, the word falafel is supposed to have come from the Arabic ‘filfil’ or even further back to the Sanskrit ‘pippali’, meaning pepper – so just go full tilt on the dressing.
But what is it about it that makes even die-hard carnivores nod in approval? There are serious arguments among Parisian bloggers who otherwise write in smooth, snooty tones about the wonders of their city – they wax eloquent when it comes to the falafel. Words like flawless, crunchy, velvety, creamy, crisp, juicy – and surprise, surprise, that word the world uses so rarely – amazing! flow without restraint. And it is not just Paris. Which is the most-loved street food all the way across in the USA? Not the hot dog. It is the unassuming falafel (it won both the people’s choice and judges’ choice awards at the Vendy’s last year, the ultimate award for street food).
Yeah, so, falafel. The word traditionally refers to the crisp fried but soft inside chickpea fritters (please, anything but pakoda) but now also means the pita bread sandwich in which it is served most often. And that sandwich is an art of work in itself – the falafel balls, creamy hummus, salted fresh and grilled veggies, tahini, mint sauce… all stuffed into a pita pocket that oozes rapturous goodness with every bite.
If you don’t want the mess (really? why?), you can get these separately too on a plate – all the ingredients with pita bread on the side. But anyone who has eaten panipuri served at your table on plates with a tiny cup of pani by the side will know what an unsatisfying experience that can be.
The falafel is believed to have originated in Egypt – where they make the fritter with fava beans – and rapidly made its way along the Middle East. At some point, Israel appropriated it as their national dish. And Palestine protested. And the rest, as they say, is history. No, not really but there is a sustained food fight going on the region (mostly on the internet) over falafel.
In India, the best ones are available at the Falafel Veg Hummus House in Mumbai (various locations), Ta’am Falafel Restaurant in Bangalore (Koramangala) and Alaturka Doner Kebab and Falafel in Delhi (Select City Walk mall).
Of all the places we visited in Europe, our least favourite was Paris. Yes, I know, blasphemy. Perhaps it was because we went there directly from Prague which was small and exceedingly beautiful. Or perhaps because the things one has heard about Paris being a rude and unfriendly city were always in our minds. Anyway. So Paris was expensive, unfriendly and… let me just say that Paris has not managed to work its magic on me. And of course, the fact that neither of speak any French did not make it any easier.
What we did love though were the parks of Paris.
We managed to walk around only two of them but both were pretty enough for us to go again the next day. The sun was shining, the flowers were in bloom – spring was truly in the air – and there were people in the parks through the day. I know because we visited at different times of the day. One was the Jardin Du Luxembourg. The first we walked in, I was struck by how many people seemed to be just lazing around on easy chairs and even on the grass enjoying the mild sunshine – and not all of them tourists. And when we went back the next evening, several games of chess were in progress and I got shooed away by an annoyed old man for disturbing their concentration with my incessant clicking (can’t blame them – yes, I know).
And the other, which I found far prettier, was Jardin des Tuileries – a fabulous location right in front of the Louvre. The garden is called Tuileries after the tile workshops that were spread across the area for many centuries. Also, this garden houses my favourite museum, the Orangerie with its glorious sunshine pouring upon Monet’s works.
I hope you enjoyed your walk through the parks?
