When in Rome

A little over a thousand years ago, the Romans chased Alba's inhabitants off of their little hill and across the River Escoutay. They built an outpost of their empire on the plain below the village, which became a thriving city, with a forum, luxurious homes, a temple, baths, and a 3,000-seat theater.

No one knows why the Roman city disappeared and Alba's inhabitants moved back up onto their hill; nor can anyone say just how long it took for the earth to swallow up the old city. We do know that once it had been lost, it took centuries to find again.

The theater was excavated and partially restored in the mid-twentieth century. Now, every summer, the Alba circus festival hosts shows there. On long summer evenings, there's no need for lights - the theater was designed so that the sun fills it with soft light without blinding the players. The acoustics are grand, as long as they remember to chase the frogs out of the canal that runs behind the stage before the show starts.

Saturday night, seated on giant volcanic stones warmed all day by the sun, while we waited for La Compagnie XY to perform their acrobatic show "Le Grand C," we wondered what it must have been like when the theater was more than a majestic ghost of its former self, when the stands were covered and the canal played host to miniature naval battles. But when the acrobats sped nimbly onto the stage and began to scale, swing, spin, and toss each other against a backdrop of sunset and vineyards, the hour of pure grace more than made up for all that time had swallowed up.

Big Top

Yes, that is a circus tent in our back yard.

I hope your weekend is as full of adventure as ours promises to be...

Happy Bastille Day

Here in France we call it La Fête Nationale, or just July 14.
And so you know, it doesn't actually commemorate the taking of the Bastille.
It actually commemorates the Fête de la Fédération,
which was organized on July 14, 1790
to commemorate the taking of the Bastille.
On that day, King Louis XVI swore allegiance
to the Nation and the Constitution.
We don't have a king anymore,
and we've changed constitutions a few times since then,
but the French didn't want their national holiday to commemorate violence.
So instead we have a holiday that commemorates a holiday that commemorates violence.
Huh?
I know, I know. We may not like violence over here, but you know what we do like?
Complication.

Julien and I celebrated by hauling 700 kg of concrete to pour reinforcements for the doorway of the master bedroom in our house. Then we swore allegiance to each other over lunch, and took a nap.

Pictured above: Minus, our worksite safety inspector, and the bathroom doorway, standing in for the bedroom doorway (not available for photos) to show you what it looks like when you pour reinforced concrete in the wall of an extremely elderly house.

Words, words, words

Friends, it's been a while.
We've had a baby, moved to the Ardèche, and bought a house to restore. I've started work on a new book.
I hereby announce that I will be keeping you apprised of the progress of our house, and of my musings about words, and possibly of the vicissitudes and lassitudes (as Romain Gary once said) of life in the country. Stay tuned...

Here's the new house, which is very, very old.

Say cheese! It's a new year

The Saturday after New Year's we were at the market ordering cheese at our favorite cheese stall (run by two cheese geniuses, whom I'll call M. and Mme. Cheese.) when a round-ish, fur clad woman swept up and brushed us aside.
She fixed Mme. Cheese with a stare. "I must say this in front of everyone!" she said.
Mme. Cheese, who had been chatting with us and packing up our order, stopped dead in her tracks. "How was it?" she asked.
The fur-clad lady, now that she had everyone's attention, repeated her announcement. "I am obliged say it in front of everyone," she trumpeted.
M. Cheese had dropped his own order and hurried over to his wife, who had paled visibly. They both stared anxiously at the fur-clad lady. "Well?" M. Cheese asked.
The fur clad lady's gaze swept up and down the line of people waiting for their cheese. "Picture this," she said. "Twenty people." She gestured to indicate a long table. "Twenty of the most discriminating people." She held up her hands, palms flat up, to indicate a platter. "I bring it out. I put it on the table. I serve it." She paused and looked around again. The rest of the patrons of the cheese stall had given up any pretense they might have had of minding their own business and were staring openly. The air was thick with the possibility of a scandal.
"And?" Mme. Cheese prompted.
"Silence." The fur-clad lady waved her hands up and down the imaginary table in front of her. The cheese stall was also silent. The fur-clad lady drank it up.
"IT WAS SUBLIME," she thundered. "SU-B-L-IME!!!"

Here's hoping that 2010 is as rich and full and delicious for all of us as the fur-clad lady's brie.

(Photo by Joe Hale)

The Yellowjacket

I meant no harm.
Only the tip of my middle finger -
blind and round
and monstrously bigger than
your yellow, fast little body in its fierce rugby jersey -
alerted to a small tickle, made a lazy tour of the back of my collar
and encountered you,
dutifully inspecting the pale expanse of my neck
in fruitless pursuit of the possibilities implied by my misleading perfume,
baffled but industrious.
Stung,
you zipped off, leaving an angry souvenir
in my dumb digit. I meant no harm,
but then again, neither had you
and for a moment (how it hurt!)
for a moment you were the more powerful.

Take me out to the (foot)ball game

In honor of Marseille's winning 1-0 against St. Etienne last night, an old one from the Miranda file (excerpts):


i have not seem much of marseille but the
stadium, which sits in the middle of
a sort of postmodern wasteland, looking like an enormous cement spaceship.

marseille fans are not like american sports fans.
sure, like everyone else, they take it hard if the team doesn’t win,
but in their case, if the OM loses for too long, they fire the coaches and
take to the streets.

as you approach the stadium, you pass from the ring of comestibles vendors to the ring of ticket
scalpers. “does anyone need an extra ticket?” they chant, dolefully.
once you’re past them, you come to the realm of people looking for tickets.
they say, “does anyone have an extra ticket?” wistfully.
you would think that eventually one group would meet up with the other
but i think that it is some level in the dantean hell, and they are forever separated, kept apart
by vigilant hawkers of unauthorized olympique de marseille paraphernalia.

the stadium itself holds 65,000 people
and is usually nearly full.
nestled in the bottom of it, the field itself, and the players, look almost insignificant.
on the north end and the south end of the stadium are the virages, or bleachers.
they are controlled by two separate factions, the fanatics and the ultras, respectively.

the virage du nord (fanatics) is more homey and slapdash looking
most of their flags are drawn and colored in by hand;
the main theme is written at the top of the virage:
“MARSEILLE TROP PUISSANT”
and the color scheme is pure Marseille: pale blue, white, and yellow
but they’ve got a lot else going on––there’s a big banner that says
“Trichosomie” (Downs Syndrome)
and another that says “TOLERANCE” which is rather funny
coming from a group of people who spend hours of their lives
shouting rude things about the sexual histories of the opposing team members as well as their mothers and wives.

the virage du sud (ultras) is much slicker and meaner.
the top of their virage says
“INDEPENDANCE SOUTH WINNERS”
then a picture of Che Guevara
then “MARSEILLE KAOTIC GROUP 1987”
the color scheme there is orange and blue.
and they have a drum corps with orange drums.

both sides set off flares when the OM marks a goal
but neither group has a single mascot.
i have tried to detect some themes:
the sudistes have gone with a grim-looking man whose flesh is decomposing
off of his face while he clutches his throat
and proclaims his (undying, i presume) allegiance to the OM.
they also favor large confederate flags––an interesting choice
for a fan base which is largely of arab and african origin––
which they wave vigorously throughout the match.

the virage du nord has a lot of banners that say
YANKEES
but i am not sure whether this is a continuation of the civil war theme
or just some strange alliance to new york, since they also have banners that say
DODGER’S
either way, the nord’s main mascot seems to be an extremely angry looking octopus
clutching, among other things, an enormous petard (joint), a beer, a banner, and a football in its tentacles as it writhes menacingly over planet earth.