This morning dawned bright, sunny, and hot. After getting up early to put more money in the parking meter, we decided to sleep a little longer. Unfortunately a little longer meant much later and I awoke with a start realizing that we were just about to miss breakfast--something we had paid for last night. Luckily, the hotel owner took pity on us and we still enjoyed a petit déjuner of croissants, coffee, and yogurt. (The French adore yogurt. Their grocery stores have a completely separate aisle solely devoted to the stuff.)
We then walked out to the car with minutes to spare on the meter and drove off to a smaller village in Provence, L'Isle-sur-le-Sorgue. After googling Provençial towns, this came up, so feeling adventurous, we headed out.
Today was warm, uncomfortably warm in a shirt sticking to your back, sweat pouring down your face kind of way. The humidity was high and we strolled slowly through the little village, rather than doing our usual brisk walk.
"This is what Rome feels like," my mom said conversationally.
"Mmm-hmm," I answered, fanning myself with my hand.
We decided to stop for lunch but passed on the usual cafes and boulangeries until we stumbled upon a beautiful outdoor eating area complete with a ceiling of intertwining greenery. We couldn't resist and sat down at an adorable metal table.
The waitress greeted us efficiently and rattled off something in French that I didn't catch.
"Pardon?" I asked.
She repeated part of it in broken English. "It's a fixed menu. Fish, sweet potatoes, dessert."
I nodded yes when really we should have left because what followed was one of the most expensive things we purchased in France and yet neither of us enjoyed it very much. I thought wistfully of a piece of quiche while my mom pushed things around on her plate, attempting to hide the bits she didn't eat under basil leaves.
Debbie filling the oilHeading back to Avignon, we decided to try and buy oil for the car. We had attempted to purchase some earlier at a gas station but realized that we didn't know what type to buy and in my communication with the station attendant, I'm not sure he even knew what we were talking about.
So this was it. We pulled into the parking lot of "Norauto" as I scanned my old French textbook, desperately trying to figure out any words relating to car problems.
The motor oil was at the back of the store and I strolled confidently to the shelves trying to guess out which one would work. Useless. I know nothing about cars and even less when everything is in a foreign language.
Walking to the checkstand, I began my rehearsed spiel about the car needing more oil. The checker listened and then told me he couldn't help and directed me to a mechanic in the back. Flustered, I repeated my speech while the mechanic watched my lips, trying to understand the French I was speaking. Finally he shook his head, and asked me where the car was. Following me out to the parking lot, he nodded and we returned to the store, where he pointed out the correct oil.
We returned to parking lot triumphant and opened the hood to pour the oil in. My mom held a small tissue in her left hand as she poured. However, it was windy and as she recapped the oil container, her skirt began to flip up. Startled, she reached to hold it down and in doing do, dropped the oil stained tissue straight into the engine cavity.
Panicked, we stared into the engine to see the white Kneenex fluttering beyond our reach. My mom pulled the dipstick out and attempted to spear it but in doing so, only pushed the napkin in further. The wind whipped around us blowing our skirts up and only adding to the stress of the situation as each of us took turns trying to retrieve the tissue. It was at this point our absurd actions were noticed and a man strode over to ask us if we needed help. Again, I had to rack my brain for enough French to describe a situation not covered in my language classes.
Graffiti in AvignonFortunately he understood my explanation, and like us, began to poke around for the tissue. After awhile, he turned away but instead of leaving, he ran to his car where he put on a glove and wrapped an old t-shirt around his arm. Returning to us, he plunged his hand under the hood, doing his best to avoid the hottest parts of the engine. Moments later, he pulled his arm out with the tissue tightly pinched between his fingers. We effusively thanked him as he left and we got back in the car to continue on our way to Avignon.
While the rest of our day in Avignon was uneventful, we are ready to leave the city. Not only are we plagued by bad luck here, but it's the first time that I am not completely enchanted by France. Unlike the north and central regions of France, Provence is a little scruffier, a little dirtier. Avignon, in particular, is covered with graffiti--even in the most "chic" of sections where Hermés and Cartier shops line the main avenue. The ancient city seems tired, worn-down, with the buildings leaning against each other for support in the heat. The Palais des Papes, once the headquarters of the Catholic Church, rises in the midst of it all, a limestone giant out of place among the weathered, concrete buildings.
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