So apparently even if you work in an Irish Pub, (yeah, I go to Marseille and find an Irish pub, back off) it's not cool to speak English with the American Girl.
The bartender at the _____ in the Old Port wouldn't give me the time of day. No one really wants to give me the time of day except the Old Guys. Goddamn. Some things never change. Never. But that's ok because I realize that I do love an Irish Pub. And Irishmen. Although, I've never been to a pub alone, or, Ireland at all, I feel strangely comfortable. Why am I going to Florence tomorrow? Right. Art.
So, let's go backwards. My day is ending with some cold Cotes du Rhones - which is weird and yet...still drinking it - in the train station waiting to return to Avignon. In above named Irish Pub, a handsome native was staring at me as I drank my bourbon and beer, and I think he wanted to talk, so as I leave I flatly say "Bon Soir, Parlez Vous Anglais? No? Ok, thought so. No par pas Francais." Chuckle and start to leave. He asks a question, now my experience in NY has led me to the conclusion that the first question in a conversation is always where are you from, going, etc...so I answer, "New York" He smiles broadly. Good answer. Well done Thigpen. But then he says something else. "Pardon? Que? Wha? Pardon…ehhh Bon Soir" I leave. 3 blocks down the street he is next to me, trying to talk. Persistent fella, aren't you. We exchange a couple of things. (ok, not a couple, just that I'm here on vacation in France) and then he asks me something...I think, do you want to have a drink...I can't, I'm on my way back to Avignon. Then we play a little charade which I interpret to be, "Are you sleeping in Avignon?" "Oui! Oui!" Then something else. Wait. Pardon. I don't understand. Again, his hands in prayer with head rested on them. Oui, I'm sleeping in Avignon? He shakes his head....gesture me, gesture you?..OH? Where are YOU sleeping? (What a bizarre conversation, I think.) I'm sorry, I don't understand. Bon Soir. I leave. He keeps following me...at a distance. Until I get on the metro.
Only when I'm out of the metro and back in the train station do I realize he was asking me to sleep with him. However, now, it's too late to be self-righteous, but it now adds to the argument that very dark, serious gentleman are also interested (as he was the 3rd dark and serious gentleman who tried to talk to me today), the beloved older guys, and now the additional category of those who think I'm an American Whore. Is it because I'm alone, in a bar, crying, drinking bourbon and shamelessly looking for someone to connect with? Nah. Can't be. I'm keeping to myself. I don't think I look trashy. I don't understand.
And so begins the 4th Cry of the day. 2 in churches. 1 in train station. 1 in LaMairie - an exposition of amateur, learning, studying, community artists. I wanted to see some art and I saw a sign that said galerie in the midst of my wrong turns, so I stepped in. There were 2 sweet little old vibrant ladies who were so happy to see me. A class was going on in the back and I viewed artwork on these paneled walls as familiar as that I'd seen in the halls of my high school. One lady approached me with tea and cookies, and I tried to pay or make a donation to the school, but she would have none of it. I have to admit that this detour happened at the most opportune time. Tears of joy. It was the turning point of the day and tipped the scales to make the day trips success.
See, I had been lost 3 times at this point. I started my day in the city taking the walking tour backwards, which is why I never encountered any other groups along my route, and the sites were only spectacular when I turned around to glance at where I had been. The first realization of this found me on a wooded path where I was being followed, then abruptly cut off, by an older dark and serious gentleman who had seen me taking pictures and who turned out to be harmless, but still, kept looking over his should as he was talking to me. The men speak and stand so close with such a piercing intensity and purpose that they make my father seem down right frivolous. The second losing streak came along a cobblestone street where went into the 1st church of the day. I've never been very religious, but when you find yourself on the verge, if there is a cool, quiet church nearby, go in. I sat, tried to figure out what I was doing here, didn't get an answer and decided that I had to keep going.
Third time was a detour to a little square. Oh look! It's like a farmer's market. That's familiar. I walked along and looked at the fruits and vegetables and other things I couldn't easily identify. Got my fill, turned around, and only then realized that we weren't in NY anymore. There is not the happy little grid system to rely on. It's more like a star system. There is an open square, which is not a square at all but more of a circle, and all the streets fan out, at least a dozen, from said circle to points unkown. I had no idea which was the correct street, and as we've already determined, Sara's inner compass is sorta broken. So I follow my instincts, turn around and walk farther away from the main street. I walk, make a right. Walk, make a right. Why did I wear my skirt today? Why did I think Marseille would be a pretty little water town like, oh, I don't know…Hilton Head? Cause, it's not. If you've never been, trust me, it's not. Now I'm walking down narrower, darker streets, with many shops and men leering in the doorways and laughing and saying something and I keep pretending that I know exactly what I'm doing and the words "and she was never heard from again" briefly pop into my head, and just as soon as I say, "what have I done?", that last right turn, puts me immediately back to into the main thoroghfare. Huh. Maybe the compass isn't broken after all…maybe my travels are exactly like everything else, I'll get where I'm going eventually, but first, let's see what's over here that can frustrate/frighten/fuck me up. No. That's not the answer. You just have to learn to pay better attention. Stop drifting. Stop being led by shimmery shapes, pretty voices and bright colors. Focus. Have a care, Thigpen.
So with my newfound focus, and inspired by the exotic foods I saw in the market I went in search of something delicious to eat. After 1 1/2 hours of searching and stopping in the second church to collect myself, I composed this letter.
Dear Lonely Planet,
Please make visits to the places you write about in the "off" season and explain to the poor Americains which places serve lunch and which serve dinner and which close when it is not the high season. This girl has only found consistency in your reporting of the places that serve alcohol...and about that sirs, you are spot on, however, woman cannot live on drink alone. Or can she…
Good question considering that I'm now trying to convince myself that a full day of sightseeing can be easily sustained by 1 cappucino, 1 croissant, 1 tea, 1 cookie, 1 Maker's Mark, 1 1/2 pints Kronenburg, and now, 1 cold (still weird) bottle of Cotes du Rhones which I'm currently consuming in the train station. Needless to say, I am rocked.
Thanks Lonely Planet!
Between bouts of getting lost, I did see many beautiful sights. My first view of the Mediterranean from the Palais du Pharo, St. Victor Abbey, the busy street of La Canebier – even more beautiful at night -with the bookstore and the chocolate shop, and the lovely, quiet district of Longchamp Palace with gorgeous, if not ornate, architecture and fountains, treelined residences and small theaters, parks and cafes. However, as it was a day trip, I couldn't linger in any of these beautiful locations, which brings me back to the TGV staion on my way back to Avignon.
So, yes, at the end of the day, I'm a little drunk. Not the cool drunk of Kerouac (though, maybe that wasn't so cool either, but I do think it's a little dirty like Bukowski, not that I think I'm any Faye Dunaway...yet.) but I finished my wine and have an entire train car to myself at the moment. I'm in 1st class, mind you, which might make me dance in the aisles to Son of A Son of a Sailor. I pushed the fool button...my night went haywire... I now have Madelines from the vending machine and chocolate from the cute store next to the Pub. And how bout this kids! I'm on the train alone. NO ONE in the car with me to Avignon, so I decide to dance around, sing out Louise and eat all 6 Madelines...I'll save the chocolate for later.
Take that Irish. I don't need you to talk to me! Cue the Tom Petty!
