Meynes

I never tire of Provence: old stones lit up by Van Gogh sunflower light, or starry-night moonlight, crossing the Rhone River just to get from here to there, passing a castle on the way to the market, finding a wheat field next to a vineyard, the wineries, the olive mill in the next hamlet. I can’t wait to revisit Les Baux, Arles, St. Remy en Provence, Nimes, & Avignon, the lush countryside strewn with Roman ruins and tree lined back roads through sleepy villages. This time I hope to see the lavender fields in bloom.

I’m back in the ancient stone and timber house, draped in cobwebs and covered in dust, built into the hillside of the tiny village of Meynes, where I’ll stay for a month. As soon as I stepped through the heavy wooden front door of the house I felt its history, the people who lived here in 1512, keeping cool in summer inside thick stone walls, cooking in the huge fireplace, sleeping in high-ceilinged bedrooms, clogging down the crooked cobblestone streets to the town square, or up to the church.

Today the house has a gas stove, electricity, hot water… Apart from enjoying the food, the clean air and the most delicious tap water I ever tasted, I’m here for the peace & quiet of the country. This house takes the concept far: it has no radio or TV, the CD player is broken, there’s a phone but no internet connection. The only noise comes from birds and church bells. I need a radio for music & news; I miss the news; have they fixed the 330 Airbuses? I could buy a newspaper, I guess; the tobacco shop sells them.

First thing I noticed was a scorpion in the kitchen sink. I trapped it under a bottle of dish washing liquid & ran outside just in time to catch my neighbor stepping out of her house. I said I needed her urgently. She came in and killed the beast, crushed it into pieces and wiped it up with a papertowel. Saved by the madwoman.

She helped me search for electric outlets & extension plugs; I told her I hoped we could be friendly, she apologized (again) for having been so weird (she says she’s unhappy and has gone back into psychoanalysis), and we let the past go. I’m dying to ask her if I can use her computer for my email and to look at porno sites, but I’m afraid she won’t get the joke. And wouldn’t that just ruin everything.

The mistral was blowing this morning when I went for my walk on the back roads behind the village. Apricots are falling off the trees, figs are ripening, wild raspberries are just beginning to form; they’ve planted fields of I-don’t-know-what kind of vegetables; the earth smells warm and fertile. The Hollywood YMCA treadmill is far away. On the way home I stopped by the boulangerie and talked to the baker’s wife. They’ve had a baby since last time. I bought a croissant and a small baguette.