Sitting on the terrace at the Cafe de la Poste inspired much of my journaling in Provence. While my travel journal holds knick-knacks from Paris, it holds the essence of Provence...its stories. I'm puzzled why writers flock to Paris to write their novels. To me, Paris is much too frantic for careful contemplation of stories, ideas, great philosphies. I'm much more at ease and creative in Provence. My travel journal illustrates this perfectly in this entry from September 2005:" Later...down the narrow stone-lined street Hugo stumbles and lurches forward. Silhouetted against the bright mid-afternoon sun, he stops for a moment to regain his balance. Tall and lanky by provencal standards, he wears boots, old work pants, and a red plaid, long-sleeved shirt. "Merde, but it's hot!" he mutters to himself. Neither clothes nor Hugo have seen soap and water for many weeks. His leathered and tanned face has seen the stones of the street many times, though--bruised and scarred, he could be the victim of a beating rather than the bottle. Every day it's the same...Hugo steps into the cafe for 'une petit cafe au lait.' Hmm...one glass of the rouge would clear the cobwebs from his cloudy head. One glass of the wine leads to several glasses of cheap pastis. Soon, it's mid-afternoon--no food, no work, and now, no money. Into the coolness of the village, Hugo makes his drunken way. "Chloe at the boulangerie...maybe she'll give me a croissant from yesterday's delivery. Perhaps Jules has a plate in the restaurant kitchen. Perhaps... I can't ask maman anymore." Ah, a doorway, a shuttered house, a place to rest. Hugo sinks to the threshold and...sleeps.
I wrote this sipping a glass of rose at the Cafe remembering a sorry-looking man I had seen earlier in one the villages we visited. A sad reminder that even in glorious Provence there is human sorrow, failing, and tragedy. I'm glad I have remembrances of both the glitz and glamour and the gritty stories of France.
Cafe de la Poste in Goult. Where inspiration happens!
