Day Six: Recherche du Temps Papal
I'm sitting here outside the Papal Palace in Avignon, waiting for the flutist busking in the courtyard to have done with his Stephen Sondheim repertoire -- fortunately, he was in baroque mode when I was loitering in the grand chapel and the dulcet strains were filtering up to me. It's quite a pile, I must say. Everything in supersize -- nothing to mere human proportions. The tomb effigies very fascinating, everyone looking either chipper or ultraserene. A lovely attenuated bust of Catherine of Siena -- you'd suppose she'd be persona non grata here, since she's the gal who persuaded Pope Gregory to return to Rome. Truly wonderful bits of fresco tiles in the antechambers -- fishies and birdies and doggies and lambies -- one particularly strained, ferocious, fanged and clawed rabbit caught my heart -- I was almost ready to buy a cheapo reproduction in the gift shop, but the reproduction didn't have quite the right "I'm not Pussy, I'm the Princess Royale!" look on its face. Contented myself with buying a little booklet about the tiles that gives the scary bunny pride of place.
It's interesting how many figures in the Palace sculpture have had their faces removed -- one wouldn't have supposed Protestants to have penetrated to this seat of orthodoxy, or that they'd have done such a thorough job. Why does a face make an image? There's an essay question for your next semiotics examination...
I've got about an hour to kill before the Musee du Petit Palais opens up after lunch. Can't quite decide if I'm hungry or not -- I had two pain au chocolat for breakfast a couple of hours ago. Can't quite get synchronized to French mealtimes -- by the time I'm properly awake enough to think of eating, le petit dejeuner is no longer being served... so I scrounge up something or another and am not hungry for lunch and so on.
Here's a question -- why are French merchants so reluctant to make change? Is there really an acute shortage of change in this country, as part of some inscrutable monetary policy of the Banque de France, or are French merchants just plain lazy about making change every time they ask if you have "something smaller"? I have learned to outsmart them, however -- I make a great show of searching all my pockets (having carefully seeded them with a few centimes) before "Je regrette..." and proffering the 200 franc bill. And then they reluctantly part with the coinage. That's me -- always thinking.
Observation on French Life and Culture #2: there are a huge number of dogs here. And the dogs go everywhere with everyone -- I saw dogs being brought along to say goodbye to family members departing in the train station. I'm glad to say that all the poodles are very scruffy in the Midi -- I've only seen one with any sort of coiffure at all.
Do you suppose the woman in front of me with the Bozo orange hair regrets her little foray into experimentation right before her vacation, or if she finds it satisfies some deeply felt need to stand out in the crowd of muttonish tourists? Her skirt matches.
(Later) Oh mannnnn, I figure I earned about a six month's amnesty from the Leg Police today. When the afternoon was far enough advanced, I went down to the "Souvenirs d'Avignon" shop and loaded up on Pont d'Avignon tilt pens...I wanted them so badly for souvenirs for work. The "Seven Popes of Avignon" rulers were tempting (all the seven popes having a bug-eyed, Elmer Fudd-ish sort of look that showed they were perfectly conscious of being one jump ahead of angry hordes of Roman archbishops), but I held out for tilt pens. (Note to myself: I'd better learn the whole Pont d'Avignon song before I go back to work, since I've made such a damn fuss about it...)
Then I walked up the Rocher des Doms and duly admired the bridge. (No, I did not feel impelled to go down and dance on it.) There is a pretty park at the summit of the Rocher, with a bathroom basin's worth of pond full of the prettiest little russet and green ducks imaginable... as well as a snuffy, bad-tempered old black swan.
By dint of lurking at the entrance to the Petit Palais waiting for the exact stroke of fourteen o'clock, I was the first... and for a while, the only viewer in the museum. This could have led one to be self-conscious, since the guards had nothing to watch but you. It is a beautiful, beautiful collection, with bushels of Vierge et Enfants and other first class medieval art. I have many questions -- why is Jesus torturing a little bird in his mama's lap? Why is St. Bartholomew carrying that sword all the time? Why don't I possess the patience to draw such a cool furry clawed demon with sinewy haunches like the one being killed by St. Michel in the Cervilli triptych? Who is St. Fabien, and why is he rushing around like that? Who is the second woman in the Ariadne pictures -- was she Ariadne's duenna? (Great picture, from that series, of Pasiphae making friends with the bull by feeding it bunches of watercress -- you can almost hear her say, "Here, bully bully bully...") Why do all the Magdalenes have my hair?
No. Really. Why do all the Magdalenes have my hair?
Let's get this straight. I'm not saying "Some of the Magdalenes have my hair." I'm not saying "All of the Magdalenes have hair that in some way slightly resembles mine." I'm saying ALL the Magdalenes have MY hair -- same length, same color, same texture. If you go to the Petit Palais in Avignon, you will see me in a scarlet cloak and unbound tresses plastered to the foot of the cross -- if lucky, getting Christ's blood drizzled down on my face. (In one Crucifixion, Christ has become a literal fountain of blood, complete with a tidy basin at the foot of the cross and ornamental jets in the shape of the evangelists's beasts making little supplementary crimson arcs.)
Got some provisions on my way out to the city walls where I parked... and then entered on a new and exciting variant of the getting lost game -- losing the car! I tramped up and down from Porte Thiery to Porte Marthe to Porte Thiery to Porte Limbert, looking oh so hopefully for the red license plate that signifies 'American imbecile driving' (I swear, I have not seen a single red license plate other than the Kid's... which is just as well since that, and its billiard green interior are my main points of identification.)
Est-que personne a enlevee mon voiture?
(EH-suh-kuh PAIR-sun ah en-lay-VAY mun vwa-TOOR)
"Has someone stolen my car?"
Well, obviously I found it, or I would still be wringing my hands outside the walls of Avignon instead of jotting these notes here. Tune in next week for "Getting Lost in the Camargue"!