VIVE LA FRANCE! (PART I OF II)

MARCH 29, 2022 – Blogger’s note: To re-orient my readers—my “virtual” fellow travelers . . . the trip to Hungary, and Czechoslovakia (see 3/19/22 – 3/27/22 posts), then to Vienna, Austria, followed my stay in Belgrade (see 3/14 – 3/16) but preceded my sojourn in Medulin, Yugoslavia (see 3/17) and travels to Venice, Genoa, and Turin (see 3/18). This post picks up from Turin.

By train I traveled north from Turin to Geneva, then to the French Alps in the vicinity of Val d’Isere, where I spent a few days hiking in fog- and mist-bound conditions. My expectations were dashed.

I moved on to Montpellier in Provence. There I was reunited with mes amis médicaux, Chantal and Jean-Pierre—my gracious hosts who showered me with kindness, generosity, steady humor, and ample conversation about the world—all served with plenty of food and wine . . . and sunshine.

After a couple of days in their fair city and nearby Nîmes, site of the famous Roman arena, we headed for the Provence countryside to visit more friends of my hosts. For me, our stay in that famously gorgeous part of France was a beautiful duet of scenery and encounters with interesting people.

“There,” I wrote to my family, “I met some extraordinary friends of my friends—e.g. A Russian emigré who’d escaped from a Nazi P.O.W camp in Hungary in WW II; an American scientist developing algae for feeding the Third World; a host of artists, doctors, and intellectuals.” These and other friends of Chantal and Jean-Pierre were filled with a love for learning and knowledge, as well as for the simple life in a bucolic setting. Down every winding road we drove, walked, or biked, I found myself inside a beautiful painting. In meeting every friend of my friends, I imagined myself playing a cameo role in some grand film. Staple fare of wine, fruit, fresh bread, and cheese kept us well-nourished at every stop.

One remarkable aspect of this splendid experience is that I didn’t take a single photo of it—nor did I impart much detail in letters home. I must rely entirely on my memory, but when I recall images of those happy days, I revel in the pastoral colors, the warm sunshine, the stone dwellings, the hills and ravines, the streams and winding dirt roads, and the generous hospitality of the interesting people to whom I was introduced.

In front of the right people (and right bottles of wine), Chantal and Jean-Pierre would prompt me to provide a little entertainment in the form of mime and impersonations. (A future post will digress to elaborate on this quirky “act,” which, I’m relieved to report, has faded into my distant past.) By this time, my guides were well acquainted with my antics in this regard—which had been on full display in Medulin and Venice, of all places. Free of spoken language, pantomime and gait-and-gesture impersonation was a quasi-art form well suited for me, the monolingual (to all practical effect) American.

Eventually, of course, my guides—Chantal and Jean-Pierre—had to return to Montpellier, and thus did I, as well. According to plans previously laid, the Third Musketeer—Michel—had driven over from the Pyrénées to meet us in Montpellier for a Sunday rendezvous. After a grand farewell dinner with my hosts, I rode with Michel back to his town of Argèles-Gazost, where he’d generously offered to accommodate me for a few days while I took long mountain hikes. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson