As I write now at the end of our eighth week in France, we are down to the proverbial business end of our placements in this country. With just four weeks left until our departure, we have been cramming as much as possible into each sunny day here.
As usual, much of our free time is spent rambling via bus, train or bicycle to distant and nearby villages so as to see as much as possible before our dreaded departure. The beautiful medieval city of Aigues-Mortes, which I had the chance to explore last week, is enclosed by an ancient stone rampart which rises dozens of metres in the air. Within the magnificent protective wall exists the paradoxically modern heart of the city, whose antiquated streets are lined with beautifully presented upmarket cafes, souvenir shops, art galleries and fountains, all of which are bustling with tourists. When one ascends the rampart and
its magnificent towers, the region known as the Camargue stretches for miles into the horizon. In the direction of the sea exist massive pillars of salt bound by flamingos, which are native to the region, grazing in the surrounding body of water.
Last Friday the group of us Australians rendezvoused in the nearby city of Avignon to celebrate my eighteenth birthday. We welcomed Sarah Smith, who had been living in the North of France since our arrival, to the beautiful South of France, before finding a promising street café, and enjoying the gastronomic offerings of the beautiful region. After lunch, during which we were all crammed close to each surrounding table in the spirit of true French café dining, we made our way to a local bar and spent the afternoon drinking and sharing our experiences with one another.
Four days later, the longest day of the year marked the European transition from spring into summer, and was celebrated nation-wide by the French Fête de la Musique. Even in my tiny village of but 3,500 inhabitants, locals filled the centre place of the commune, and celebrated the solstice with native music, food and alcohol. Red wines and pastis – an anise-based liquor which is both largely popular in and local to France - are never amiss at such events.
On another spare day I made the two-hour journey by train to the coastal city of Marseille, the third most populated city in France. After combating my way through a plethora of gypsies and the Marseillan metro system (the shock of the big city really hit hard here), I surfaced at the beautiful Vieux Port, a centre-point of commercial trading for more than twenty-six centuries, which is today filled with boats of all sizes and uses, and lined with modern shops and cafés. Armed with the knowledge of the all too common dangers and annoyances of the city, I wandered around the bustling Vieux Port a little before making the steep ascent up to the hilltop church of Le Notre Dame du Garde. From the lookout at the foot of this church, I could see the entire expanse of the city of Marseille, which, to my left, gave way to a beautiful sky-blue ocean.
I wrapped up this fortnight by enjoying some of the cultural festivities of the Gard department. The neighbouring village of Garons was celebrating its annual Fête Votive, five days in which inhabitants of the village celebrate their rich culture. In the arena of this village, my host family took me to watch as locals tempted their fates with a furious bull, which charged at those who entered the inner circle of the grandstand. Whilst more daring combatants tossed rings onto the horns of the furious bull, or even flipped over the beast as it charged at them, those less agile were left trampled and sore in the wake of the bull.
Every now and then the provoked animal would jump the rails of the arena and thereby enter an outer circle of spectators, which sent locals fleeing for the higher levels of the arena.
The evening was finished with a traditional bull catching along the main roads of the village, during which competing teams would attempt to catch and arrest a wayward bull. Unlike the activities of the arena, this one was dangerous for all those involved, and I found myself running to the cover of nearby bushes, cars, or anything else that would prevent my potentially imminent death by trampling.
I think all eight of us Australians will endeavour to do as much as possible in our final four weeks here. In two weeks is the Fête Votive of my own village, during which I will likely participate in my own bull catching, as well as soak up as much of the Southern French culture as possible.
Until next time, A la prochaine
Jesse.
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