Sometime after the end of the 13th century, the pope became squeamish about the unpleasant demise of 40 or so of his predecessors and this led, in ways I will not go into ('cause I haven't a clue), to a cluster of French Popes with a love of big buildings and good wine.

The pope's place at night.

The pope's bridge gets you halfway across the Rhône, from there, Jesus walked, or so the story goes, or so my story goes.

Avignon is a moderate size city in the heart of Provence and the place where we established home base for our exploration of the sights, cities, and hill towns to which this blog is devoted. The old city has an impressive wall that keeps the tourists from fraternizing with the locals, who might tell us what food really costs.

The medieval charm is protected by decree from the desecration of air conditioning. Weather above 40˚C is not uncommon and one feature of this for meat eaters is that you can order everything rare and then depending upon how quickly you eat, the meal will be done to your satisfaction at some bite.

The selection of restaurants and sidewalk cafés is nearly endless which, along with an extended natural life, must have been a big draw to a hungry pope.

Everything in Avignon is made of stone, from the cobbled streets to the slate roofs. Turns out, stone lasts longer than wood, which you might think would have caught the attention of San Francisco dwellers some 450 years later, but then there are earthquakes and surviving a contusion from a stucco encrusted 2×4 versus a chunk of granite is probably similar to seeing the age of 50 in Avignon versus Rome if you're silly enough to be pope.

Kerry, my Danish nephew, hit the apartment at the same hour as we did. Having rented an apartment from Airbnb, we were greeted by an enthusiastic host whose English was on a par with my French, so we used Google to moderate the painfully slow and dry introductions and instructions—how does one say, Hey lady, I've just driven impossibly narrow roads at insane speeds in sweltering heat and I need a beer, can we move this along? Patience is a tiresome virtue. Kerry cut to the chase with, “Where's the wifi?”

Fortunately, the Irish bar at the street corner serves an awesome Grumbachen Blonde (for my straight friends, that's beer), so the tedium was finally broken with proper flare.

Our first meal was at an open air restaurant in front of the Hotel de Ville (“city hall” for you neophites…and me), where a dozen restaurants squat cheek by masticating jowl (ugly metaphor). The meal was great and most interesting was Rod's capresé salad made with a lightly breaded, pan-fried mozarella. Nothing sparks up a slab of fat like frying it. Good wine, good company, no popes anywhere, who could ask for more?

More bothersome essays about nothing.

Those who know anything about my driving experience in Oxford, where I hit a tiny red two story bus, might find it odd that I got back on the mechanical horse in Lyon. It is fortunate that I trained in aggressive driving on the unforgiving streets of Boston, but bean-town had training wheels by comparison with France. Everyone in this country still dreams of competing in the Grand Prix and where better to practice than on the narrow country roads of Provence?

The French throw away bread after 3.5 hours, but asphalt is not squandered. The width of a typical non-highway road is about what the US gives to SUVs in lined parking spaces (where few can manage to stay between them). One drives between 50 and 110 km/hr and the only thing that keeps the opposing vehicles from scratching each other’s door paint is the Bernoulli effect. It is simply a matter of blind faith, passed down from Joan d’Arc, that one will avoid a head-on engagement. (And recalling Joan’s own end does not help.)

The Brits like their “round-abouts,” where intersecting roadways meet in a centrifuge that toss motorists onto 3, 4, or 6 different exits, but the French love them. Once popular in New England under the name “rotary,” the configuration is a horror to Americans from other parts of the country who consider the automobile a combination of hair salon and phone booth. Rotaries demand attention and rapid decision making. Speed reading is a must. Not a substitute for the overpass, the French are installing more and more of them. They are fabulously efficient. Best negotiated with a standard shift, when traffic is light you can sail through one intersection after another without stopping.

The French keep to the right on divided highways except when passing. They always signal lane changes and intended turns. I could kiss them on three alternating cheeks for it. And while fast driving seems to suggest impatience, no one beeped at this clumsy tourist trying to work out how to make 7.40 euros from a fistful of foreign coins at a toll booth.

One little bit of advice if you intend to drive in France—get the smallest car you can possibly get by with. Even modern parking garages have curls that will turn your hair. Americans have left rain forests of rubber and mega-liters of paint on the bumpers of narrow streets and walls of ancient ruins.

One takes it that English, with its limited emotion, is the language of business; Italian, on the border of hysteria, of irritation; Spanish, of enthusiasm; German, argument—”Agree or I will keep spitting on you”; but French, when spoken softly, is the talk of love.

I do not understand many words in French, but I can read the speaker’s intention. And so it was when I suspected one young man say to an other, I want to put my tongue where no other has. In the second man’s brief hesitation, I could see the obvious question, Inner ear or nasal cavity? His final decision was, “Sure, why not.” The French are an agreeable lot.

Posted while drinking

The driver spoke no English. I speak no French, worthy of mention. That worked out fine. To my “Je m'appelle Bellerose,” he replied, “Enchanté” and already I was out of my depth. I have learned not to use a well-practiced French phrase as an introduction. This only encourages a spew of French that I have no hope of understanding. Get the language barrier, if there is to be one, out of the way first, then sprinkle the polite ouis and mercis with abandon.

Traffic was a horror. Both Obama and Putin were in town, though got no invite on AF1. (Obviously, the NSA knew I would be here.) The Americans are still determined to milk the liberation of Paris for all it's worth, though no one I know liberated it and no one they know was freed. Perhaps its time to call us square with Lafayette.

The city is more beautiful than I remembered. The Airbnb apartment…not so much. A dingy 5th floor walkup to a garret in desparate need of IKEA love. Rod is appalled. Looks like a local hotel and a forfeit of prepaid rent. However, it was almost worth it to discover the district called “Saint Germain.” We may never stay elsewhere else, though at the end of this trip, we will. We are a short walk from the Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay.

Posted while drinking