Just a quick word before leaving! We've cleaned the flat and packed our bags and while typing, I'm chewing on a reheated frozen quiche from Monoprix. Ohmagawsh, this is it. This is really is it. We're flying tonight. I'll be one of the little passing lights I see at night from the window while we watch Breaking Bad marathons. We are leaving Paris fer realsies and when we stop, nobody knows. It rained buckets this morning, it looked like hail. The kids at the school behind the house were screaming like it was murder.
Woke up this morning really nervous. Still nervous. I'll continue the blogging from the other side of the world, alors!
Montmartre, on one of my last promenades.
Gros bisous to everyone who stayed with the blog, and those who have discovered it by chance. I still have a few entries about Paris that I intend to finish (backlog pa rin?! haha) I hope I get the time while we are in India.
Listening to Josephine Baker's J'ai Deux Amours - finally, an accent I can understand.
The flat suddenly looks so small now that it's almost empty.
Wow. It's sure been a while. I don't know where to start anymore. Actually, I don't remember where to start! So I'm going back to read the sh!t I wrote and imma get back to you, mmmkay?
So where were we?
Ah, Marseille. So, after the long camping trip to Italy and back, we were sleeping under a roof again, taking unhurried showers, having breakfast while seated on chairs, not wondering if dogs are peeing on our tent while we dream and whatnot. In the afternoon we went to H's friend's cousin's stepfather's house (read it again, it will make sense eventually) for grilled fish and a romp in the pool. H's friend, G, showed us the CCTV setup in his uncle's bedroom. It was connected to the gasoline station in the front, so even at night he had an eye on the store.
After lunch, I lazed about on the swing while H and G tossed the nephews around the pool. After realizing I talk mostly in English, one of the little critters asked him, "Pourquoi tu choisi ta femme en anglais?" or "Why did you choose your wife in English?" Yeah, rough him out a bit in the pool, please. No, obviously I'm kidding.
Before rush hour, H and his friend got dressed and we planned to give the city a once-over before we went back to Gigouzac; but once we hit the highway, H started looking panicky. "The gear is stuck on 2nd," he said, so he tried to shift to first, and on first it stayed. We were running on 20 kph and the other cars were honking for us to hurry the hell up because you CANNOT be slow in Marseille... and let me tell you why:
Luckily, G knew Marseille like only Google Maps would, and he navigated us to the nearest Peugeot dealership that was... on the next corner! Massive automobile shitstorm aside, were we lucky or what? So, G ran out of the car, got the other cars to stop so we could turn around and crawl to the other side of the street. Motorists were honking their horns at us, flashing the finger and shouting profanities; the boys lashed back with some obscenities themselves, of course. Good times.
About fifteen minutes later (we were slow, okay?) we got to the Peugeot lot, but the mechanic didn't want to take the car in because it was a Friday and it was 5 pm and Monday was a non-working holiday. He'd be damned if he acted like he cared and processed the car in. They tried to talk to the people in charge in the office, no luck there. So H called the insurance guys and they told us to hire a car to go back to Gigouzac, get a towing company to keep the broken car until Tuesday until which time it can be taken back to Peugeot for diagnostics and H will have to come back by train to get the car when it's fixed at some future juncture (on the insurance's dime, of course).
So, with understandable apprehension and resentment over paying the gasoline and the toll fees twice (because the insurance doesn't cover that) we decided to get a car from Hertz. Problem was, by foot, Hertz was about 20 minutes away. The boys were both over 6 feet tall and speed walking, meantime, my strides were 5 inches shorter and... did I mention I threw away my rubber shoes before leaving Lake Maggiore? I trotted behind them in beach sandals, a cute little number in white with plastic straps and a rose pattern on the sole that costs a pretty penny but does nothing for your feet when you're racing after after giants. At a party two weeks after this, I pulled out the corn that had formed on my left foot.
Driving towards the lavender sunset on our way back, we felt like we had reached the nadir of road trips; but half-glass-full people that we are, we decided it was better that the car broke down while we were still in Marseille and not on the highway. So we got to his parents' place at around 1 am, and the next morning H had to explain how come his mother's car broke down in his care, and his parents had this "yeah, right" expression on their faces the time he told his story. We all know how he likes to drive.
Fast forward to a week later, Friday, H is back in Marseille and I'm in Gigouzac, he calls us to say he is calling from the car on the way back -- but oh! -- hold on! -- the gear is stuck on first again! Eventually he ends up going back to Peugeot to play the waiting game with the mechanics. Since it was late, he decided to go back to Luc and Clemence's for a big dinner.
Because I'd been putting off re-learning how to swim, my father in law had resorted to asking me every afternoon after gardening duties if "today" was the day I would take swimming lessons. Well, since my eyes were tired and it was the warmest I'd felt all week I decided it was time to take him up on his offer. While my mother in law fretted over the state of her car, and how she was supposed to get back to work on Monday with no car, I ran over to the pool for my lessons.
I was a bit scared because my father in law has a reputation for having a short temper, and I know that when it comes to sporty things I have a very slow learning curve. Miraculously, I survived it without being shouted at once and I managed to swim for ten seconds without help before sinking to the bottom. PROGRESS! My mother in law's jaw dropped open when I told her the lessons went well and that her husband was very patient with me; my brother in law was just on his way out, but that stopped him in his tracks.
Although H said he hadn't planned on it (because he thought of staying overnight in Marseille), he took Peugeot's service car and drove all night while they figured out what the heck had happened to my mother in law's car. We were supposed to be back in Paris for some meetings by the 24th, but we wanted to stay around for the next two days for Fête de Gigouzac.
At 5 in the morning, H arrives while I'm snoring, curled around my laptop because I fell asleep waiting for the Glee Project to stream properly. H's dad brought out the heavy drinks during lunch, but in H&M time, it's breakfast, so actually I had cognac for breakfast. A year in France has turned me into an alcoholic!
That night we had a barbecue in the pool house and my in-law, A, and his friend M unpacked their newly-bought Camelbaks and filled it with rum and coke so they could go to la fête without having to pay for the drinks. This is the kind of genius family I've married into.
I have to admit I couldn't sum up the two nights of fete like I could remember the other things that happened that week. I remember coming in, being stamped, watching the shows, and observing the paradox of a stage set up next to the church given the secular type of entertainment we got that evening. California Gurls and church? Pourquoi pas (why not)? Don't get me wrong, it was a fun show, but consider just a few of the images I got to snap while the night was young:
A Claude François medley, complete with Clodettes.
Deeper into the night, the band felt like it was time for
a Dracula musical... with strippers. I kid you not.
Third act of the Dracula musical, the girls return
with faux petticoats to suck some more.
See the white wall to the left of the picture? That's where H and I had the church ceremony last year. The guitarist here is really good, I think this was his Led Zep tribute.
Le local artisan beer
I had a few beers because the mayor introduced us to the owner of Ratz (we got ginormous kegs for the wedding, support your local businesses and all that jazz) and the former mayor treated us to a few brews when he took us to meet the Irish boys because he needed a translator, then there was also the new-guy-in-town who bought us some rounds because he was just so happy to have some friends in that lonely village (I tried to talk to him in Pardon my French French but he didn't mind; he said he could detect I have good soul, which shows he really doesn't know me, mheh), I pogo danced with the town's resident eccentric, was unwittingly pushed into a Paquito line and was almost crushed under the weight of a tall rugby player - and it's only funny because I survived.
The Paquito, a dance from the south west.
A lot of other things happened that I only remember in snippets now and I blame it on my sugar high, but a lot of it I can't really mention anyway, in case the people of Gigou come by and read this, hee hee. To be very vague, the most poignant thing I remember was one girl having a mental breakdown after she realized she had f*cked up relationships with people, or maybe she had a breakthrough, that's why she decided to drown her sorrows in beer and act a fool - because that moment of lucidity was sheer torture.
With all the boys drunk by pack-up time, I was the only one strong enough to hold H up to stop him from falling on his face. My knees almost buckled the wrong way! I took him to the snack shop for some churros to push the alcohol down. The gypsy family who owned the booth were happy that H asked how they were and got them started on their woes as victims of racial stereotyping. The wife had an especially long story for me, which I suppose I was supposed to understand as a woman, but in actuality I understood only 20% of. But I nodded and said "ça c'est vrai" (that's true) and "c'est pas juste" (that's unfair) at the seemingly appropriate moments. And that, children, is how you make people think you speak French.
It's amusing to be the one of the few sober people in a crowd of four hundred people. One of the most popular pastimes in France is people watching, but it's more interesting to watch them when they are drunk. I think it's when they are most happy, judging from how carefree they look when they grin. In the morning I would be asked where certain bruises come from (stereo equipment), where people left their keys (bush), where all their money went (beer for wrong girl), and where missing people or articles of clothing might be found (also bush); it is also one of the very few times when I am the most accurate keeper of time.
The sky was beautiful when we walked back to the house, it was so clear that we distinctly saw the glowing nosedive of a falling star. The following day, a friend from Manila stayed over and witnessed the "true black" nights that the region is known for.
You already know M, she was here last December by chance after the big snow storm that grounded all the planes in Europe. This time she was on a road trip with her boyfriend, a French guy from east of the hexagon. H joked that she was a year late for the wedding.
The good weather continued and H went into the forest with one of his oldest friends from Saint Nom La Bretèche. After picking vegetables from the garden for their dinner, I was left in the house with Patricia and the kid. I had the credit card so we went out for dinner at a lakeside restaurant so she could have a break from cooking.
But my lord, on the way back we saw the biggest moonrise ever. And it was full, and it was red, and it was on fire. Patricia said they call it a Russian moon.
The next morning, H returned and I woke up to the sad news that my aunt had just died. It was a wake-up call for many things in my life, things we don't need to discuss here because I'll need an entire day for that, but most importantly, I missed her enough already and it was heartbreaking to hear I couldn't share the wedding vow renewal in the Philippines with her. She was a surviving link to my father, and I hoped at least she could tell my future children about their pikutin grandfather. In the next couple of weeks, I would also be told that my two other uncles had died. My father and all his siblings are now 6 feet under. Except for the little one who drowned in the Pasig and was never seen again.
After a month away from Paris, I was surprised about the things I missed. I missed going to the boulangerie for bread, stalking people on Facebook while working, going to the supermarket or testing my courage in the bi-weekly street marché, reading in the park, sitting still in a museum, telling the turtle to quit splashing around, talking to my plants who don't really deserve me, the people at the reception area of our building (even the guy who keeps asking if I'm pregnant already, because for a guy who's studying law he sure hasn't heard of boundaries), the metro, and cooking. It's so weird to realize that the things that were so foreign to me last year were suddenly so missed. A lot really can happen in a year, and this sabbatical I took in France had a way of hitting the message home.
I hear stories from people in the Philippines and I'm surprised at how much had changed at the home front, too. H's friends go out less because of their new babies, or are working on new relationships, or have moved away to other cities and even countries. In a few weeks, we will join their ranks.
For the last month, we had finally put into action the process of THE BIG MOVE.
H renewed his passport and international driving license, I went to my immigration meetings, we did our research, bought a travel guide, got our visas, booked our one-way ticket to India, had a farewell party in the house, started packing away our clothes and books and kitchen utensils, and, just last week, finally sold the apartment.
Paris had become too small suddenly, and we are exchanging her for a continent.
It was a hot and cloudless day when we braved the ruins of Glanum and I thought on the next town we might have a break from the sun. Little did I know that the punishment had only just begun.
The car ride, for starters, was a welcome change. We turned the air conditioning up, had some water from the trunk, still cold from the night before. We avoided the highway for what was, according to the guide book, the bucolic route to Les Baux de Provence, a medieval town between St. Remy and Arles.
The guidebook did us right. From the road we took, we got this incredible view of Les Baux -- camouflaged in the rock, almost invisible if it weren't for its red standard with the Star of Bethlehem at the center.
It was a fitting introduction to one of the most beautiful villages in France.
Les Baux (from Baou, a Provençal word meaning high rock) is strategically perched on top of a hill overlooking the length and breadth of Provence - From Arles, the Camargue, the Alpilles, and up to Marseille and the azure Mediterranean in the south.
The Alpilles forming a basin around the valley.
Olive trees, and beyond, Marseille.
Artisan stores and snack shops line the main avenue going up to the citadel, the site of the old fortress. A shop owner told us to bring water when we go up, because at the top the temperature is five degrees more. (The bottle of water we had with us didn't last 30 minutes once we got there.)
He added that he grew up in the village, and knew the place back when there were no faceless tour conglomerates making money out of its history without giving back to the community. He knew the place before safety rails were put around the risky areas, in fact he even showed us the scar he got from taking his bike to the castle ruins when he was a restless petit garçon.
Well, as a tourist, I couldn't complain. After entering, we were given audio guides so we could walk around on our own pace, with an option to listen to additional history by summoning a disembodied, electronic tour guide with the correct combination of numbers. When we got to the courtyard there was a weaponry demonstration, and it was like watching the Discovery Channel in the flesh.
They asked the women to volunteer to fire the trebuchet, and H was trying to make me go...
But, dear Lord, it was too hot. It was dry and I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust.
How did we end up in the desert?
Displaying the courage and resilience of my sex, I trudged on with H until the southern tip - and was rewarded with God's view of Provence.
Moving to the north, we passed by a soda machine plugged into a cave. Oddest thing to see, but thank heavens someone thought of it. It recharged us enough to make it up the lookout tower, a place so steep that a sign saying "climb at your own risk" was deemed necessary. It was where criminals were thrown off, too.
A pair of American women had a difficult time going up the narrow, timeworn steps. One had heels on while the other kept slipping in her slippers. But we all made it, finally, to the rocky apex of the old fortress.
First level. Hitched my sleeves and leggings up because by then it was a matter of survival.
Here I am at the top level, the hottest spot in Les Baux, with my beloved bottle of soda. And H, of course.
Where there are now crumbling walls, an extravagant castle used to scale the heavens. Still, the ruins stand proud, even in their naked state.
Les Baux was greatly esteemed for its ornate castle, and was the seat of power of the lords of Baux, who descended from King Balthazar - or so the legend goes. This is why the Star of Bethlehem figures prominently in their coat of arms. Indeed, it is very old. We saw an abandoned Roman house on the way in.
But it is much older than that. Perhaps human settlement began in 6000 BC as archaeological evidence suggests, or perhaps further back than one could imagine.
At the ruins, Les Baux's prehistoric origins could clearly be traced. Forming the base of the village built into the rock were troglodyte caves -
Trying to get a break from the sun. It was actually cold in the shade.
That were constantly given a make-over to accommodate more modern standards of living. Where once there were just bare limestone walls, holes were carved to make shelves; then chimneys rose through the ceiling to bake bread, planks were attached to make towers and churches and then later more elaborate structures. One civilization after the next latched on to the rock like wild flowers, then thrived.
However, these medieval marvels have bit the dust. Even with the citadel's excellent defensive position, the mighty Protestant house of Baux was demolished in 1632 under the command of the Catholic king, Louis XIII. Today, the man made walls wage a battle with erosion, while the caves stand unflinching, as they have for thousands of years.
In the 15th century, the last of the Baux died, bringing an end to the line of the Persian King Balthazar (again, if the story is to be believed), which might have been just as well. Enough blood had been spilled in the fields of Provence to expand and defend the territory of the feudal Baux lords -- but in the end the same fate befell them as Shelley's Ozymandias whose empire - though once invincible - eventually succumbed to the elements.
Ancient olive trees still rocking it.
Coming down from the old lookout tower, an intriguing name was written on a plaque: Val d'Enfer. A jagged landscape so named because it is said to conjure visions of inconsolable despair and suffering. Thus, "the Valley of Hell."
Faced with visions of "death and suffering" I do like Pinoys do - I smile!
This ghoulish menagerie of gray rocks reputedly inspired Dante's concept of Hell in the Divine Comedy. It also figured in Jean Cocteau's Testament of Orpheus (produced by Francois Truffaut), which featured the thespian talents of Pablo Picasso, Jean Marais, Charles Aznavour and Yul Brenner... And was, of course, weird as hell (just sayin').
According to legend, it was because the hill looked so dismally grim that one can imagine goblins and ghosts coming at you from behind the limestone that it was so unfortunately named. It did not look so evil when I arrived, but while I stared at it three hours later in the infernal heat of summer, I felt the anguish and utter wretchedness of the Valley of Hell.
Luckily, we found a stall that sold granitas so I got my good spirits back by the time we got back on the road. (Babaw?) This time, we stayed in Marseille with the parents of H's friend who were on the French version of the Amazing Race.
Meet Luc and Clemence, the amazing retirees of Pekin Express. She fed us like we were starving, and he made us drink wine like we were alcoholics. God bless 'em! Clemence wanted to visit the Philippines because her sister went to Coron just when she and Luc were in the process of waiting for the show to start filming, so she missed the chance. She wore her Palawan t-shirt to show me.
The next afternoon I slept for a few hours after lunch while H and his friend hurled kids around the pool (not as dangerous as I thought). A few minutes before five pm, we were ready to go back to Gigouzac after a quick drive around Marseille.
Well, we didn't get that quick drive around Marseille. Remember when I told you in the beginning of this series that H's mom was so nervous about letting H drive her car? Those words echoed in my head as we entered the highway and the gears of the car got stuck on first. Suddenly we were crawling at 20 k/ph as the world around us sped up to a hundred.
The sign posts all said we were in Marseille, but in truth, we had entered the valley of hell.
Up Next: All hell breaks loose at a Peugeot dealership.
First off, after a few weeks of nail-biting and self-doubt, I'd like to declare that we finally have our Indian visas! Woo-hoo!
I haven't managed to write that in here because I'm very bad with time management these days. Haven't even finished writing about the trip in Provence. With one month left before we go, there are a couple of property issues we have to settle before flying off to Whoknowswhere.
To explain, we've been a little worried because the process for Indian visas is a bit strange. The embassy doesn't accept applications, a third party British company takes care of that. They have an online system that I heard has made the process a lot faster compared to a few years ago, when people could wait half a day in queue before the visa officers give them the time of day.
So we did this online thing, filled-in the form electronically, printed everything out nice and orderly-like so when we go to the visa office all we have to do is pay. When you get there you also have to get your picture taken, special Indian Visa style that only they can make, so you can't do it on the cheap by taking a picture of yourself and cropping it at home. So we did that, pasted it on the forms as prescribed, everything neat and orderly-like. And in fifteen minutes from coming in, we were called to the counter and we showed my form first and the woman tells me I can't get the number of months I'm asking for and I can't go back and forth from Nepal to India because I'm a journalist, plus that means I have to sign some special forms saying I can't be writing while I'm in India as a tourist. Whutda?
Well, we reason that I'm not a journalist, I'm a writer, that's different. I'm a writer of the mundane. And she said India does not make a distinction, and those are the rules. The company says all writers are journalists and therefore cannot stay longer than 3 months and have to sign a journalist's waiver. What have you got against writers?! But, ok, it's their country and I'm just asking to be let in. So, to get it over with, we decided to say I'm a housewife. H photocopied the form stuck to the wall, we paid for that too, no free forms here. I filled up the new form, H was again his stressed-out self, and I submitted my hand-written form, H surrendered his internet application. The new guy at the counter asked H why his was computer-generated and mine was not, but we paid for the visa applications anyway and then we went home. But on the way home, doubt was gnawing on H because they might trace my application and find out I wrote "writer" and that mightn't help my case and we might have just thrown away our money if my application is not approved for suspected fraud. Oh lord.
But thank heavens they were happier to let me in than to nitpick. I paid a little extra too, because I have a Philippine passport. They were supposed to call us when our passports are ready for pickup, but they didn't. We found out online. Blessings of the internet age. After a week and 3 days, I got my passport back in time to go to the Philippine Embassy to get something processed. That day was action-packed too.
I wanted the be at the embassy in the afternoon so I made some adobo flakes that take a long time to prepare - but maaaaan, it was good. I don't know why I never thought of making it in the first place. I know it has to do with the dry adobo disaster I served to H's friends who came for dinner two Saturdays ago. My failure inspired me, so to speak.
Anyway, so I'd planned to go to the Musee d'Art Moderne after filing the paper I needed processed at the embassy, because they are on the same Metro line. I scurried around the house thinking of the things I needed: camera, map, guidebook, passport, re-printing the papers that need signing because I realized the bottom was cropped wrong when I printed two nights before (we were watching Breaking Bad so, no attention to detail at all)... plus I had to remember to photocopy the last page of my passport for the embassy requirement, and drop off two letters for H at the mailbox.
Of course, knowing me, I would forget something as important as getting the photocopies done before I get on the Metro. Well, when I got to the embassy it was 15 minutes before closing time and I had to rush out and find a photocopier because, of course, our embassy doesn't have a photocopier. So I get to La Poste, a guy with dreads is there, he keeps pushing the button and nothing comes out. Now I'm worried that the machine is broken. So this happens for about five - eight minutes until he decides to ask for help, and he tells me to go ahead and try. I try it, it works. Turns out, he thought the copies were ten cents, but it was plainly written on the machine that it's 20 cents. Go figure. But I still thank him for letting me go ahead. I get back to the embassy on time, I get it done, POW, it's closing time. I always make it by closing time.
After that, I went for a walk along the Seine at Ave. New York, in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the long way to Palais de Tokyo, home of the Musee d'Art Moderne, where I took a time out from my suddenly hectic life. After we got back from the trip, I thought we could relax in Paris; but I was running all around, seeing friends, partying, cooking, writing, seeing other friends, doing errands, dancing, seeing to the needs of drunk strangers in our house. You know, Saturday night.
When I got home, H hadn't moved from the couch. He was playing the new Assasin's Creed and finishing the adobo flakes. Smh.
I wanted to write about the museum trip too but I only got 4 hours of sleep last night, working on something computer-y that's also annoying me, because I just found out there's something wrong with my Adobe InDesign. Well, to reset it, even online, I have to have the installation CD apparently, the installation CD that's IN THE PHILIPPINES, dammit! That's why I'm trying to repair it online, stupid Adobe-eating numbskulls! Whooo. Breathe in. Breathe out. So I try to download a trial version on H's PC, it takes 5 hours, by the time it finishes, a day of free trial is gone. Yay. So I have to work fast. I can't sleep. Coffee, coffee, coffee. I know what I'm doing is worth all the headache anyway. I hope I could tell you what it is now. But it's awesome. It's gonna be awesome.
If you crossed the olive grove from the asylum of Saint Paul-de-Mausole (as Van Gogh may have done while he lived there) past the scene painted in Olive Trees with the Alpilles in The Background, you might be startled by this sight.
And this.
For two millenia, these were the only visible remnants of an ancient Roman city that was still buried in Van Gogh's time, and so escaped the wild representation of his brush. But, had he known what lay underneath, The Starry Night would have looked very different.
The Mausoleum of the Julii (40 BC) and the Victory Arch (10-20 AD)
The Mausoleum of the Julii (the best preserved mausoleum of the ancient world) and the Victory Arch hinted at the existence of a lost city. In 1921, two men fancied a dig and unearthed an insightful look at the life and times of the ancient city of Glanum.
All roads lead to Rome.
The main throughfare in Glanum was linked to Via Domitia and Via Augusta,
connecting Spain and France to Italy.
I underestimated the size of the city. It stretched so far that the end was hardly visible from the entrance, and yet the excavation is still ongoing. I don't think we have really seen all there is to see.
But from what we know, the path we took is also a trip back in time. From the road that you can see on the left, the Roman city began with a few houses,
a forum for noblemen,
a bath house with cold, lukewarm and hot water,
The remaining roof tiles of the baths (75 BC. Rebuilt in marble in 161 AD.)
The mask that spits water into the pool. Classy.
a marketplace,
some temples and chapels,
A temple to Hercules, with podiums for offerings.
The Corinthian Temple
mansions,
H spots a doorway and goes straight to work. Old habits.
a public hall for conducting business,
Karate Kid business.
an underground water source,
and most importantly - a sacred well dedicated to the god Glanis or Glan. It was the reason why Glanum was erected in the first place.
H stares down into the sacred pool. I saw something stirring within.
And past certain points, the architecture changes. The layers get older as you go higher and further into the city.
The Temple of Valetudo, a Greek shrine (39 BC)
The buildings change from Roman to Hellenistic, with an area that overlaps the Gallo-Roman and the Gallo-Greek; after which there appears a gateway, a definite attempt to divide the Romanesque from an older Greek section of Glanum. And then, there is another division - an older section further up which turned out to be the most ancient part of the city.
The end of the road. This is the Gaulish part of Glanum and the tour ends here.
Ironically, it used to be the entrance to the city, and fortifications
were built here to protect from invasion.
The Roman walls were bult over Greek walls which were
in turn built over Gaulish walls.
After the defeat of the Roman Empire, the city fell on hard times. The residents were sacked by German tribes, so they moved to what is now Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Abandoned, the remains of the formerly well-to-do city was ransacked for stones to build the foundations of the new settlement in 260 AD.
But as I stared at the chalky rocks that loomed over the oldest part of Glanum, I wondered whether the city was much older than 150 BC. It is nestled under a cliff spotted with half-concealed caves that may have been the homes of earlier settlers, who later learned to build much more comfortable dwelling places, who learned to worship and build temples, and learned that certain things - like faith and sacred wells and elixirs of life - could forestall death. And so, they stayed.
There was recent article on National Geographic that puts forward the theory that religion (not agriculture) gave birth to civilization. It was the urge to worship that made man abandon his nomadic ways, and not the discovery that he can cultivate his own food.
But these are just conjectures, so don't take me seriously. One day, the people of Glanum decided the sacred well was hardly worth the effort anymore. And so the city passed on to myth, and then lost.
Plane trees along the "romantic" road to Les Baux (le baw).
Time seemed to stand still while we were there. There were no clouds, the wind did not blow, the sun didn't seem to move. We only realized we stayed for about two hours in the site when we came out, thirsty and weakened by the relentless heat. It was way past noon when we reached another ancient settlement between Saint-Rémy and Arles, this one considerably younger compared to Glanum.
