L'Americaine

Dancing on the bridge at Avignon — all in a circle, if you please — will cost you €6. It will also require some restraint, seeing as half the bridge is gone, fallen into the Rhone thanks to decades of war and surly tide and wind.

We did not dance or even walk on it, partly because to do so would cost as much as lunch, and partly because the bridge at Avignon is just a bridge. Actually, if we’re being honest here, it’s only half a bridge. It’s a lovely half-bridge, I assure you, with its handsome stone arches that stretch out into the river from the fortress walls that hold Avignon in its neat circle, but it is ultimately only a piece of what was.

We’re staying at a budget hotel/camp ground on the other side of the Rhone and it truly feels like camping in that we are continually freezing and swatting at the mosquitoes that have somehow, some way, infiltrated our room. J____ has issues killing bugs (I just asked her why and she said, “Because it’s gross.”) so this has become my job. Me. The girl who once held a live roach captive for three weeks under a bowl because she was too scared to feel the crunch of its little exoskeleton under her shoe. I’ve been brave to this point, even going so far as to swat a black flying something-or-other, mid-flight, between the palms of my hands, rather than have the thing chewing at our faces all night.

In short, I kind of hate this hotel. Actually, I kind of hate Avignon too. I say that while simultaneously recognizing that hating an entirely famous and mostly picturesque town in a gorgeous region of a gorgeous country just seems… ungrateful. But I mean. There’s only half a fucking bridge.

The streets are desolate save a few ragtag tourists who all look a little bewildered or lethargic, as though nothing seems compelling enough to warrant the removal of a camera from its padded bag. I have no idea where they keep all the people in this town, but we have yet to find any. Even the sunshine here seems watery and half-assed, as though God were channeling all the really good sun over to the Cote d’Azur. And then there’s the wind.

I have not gone an hour here without eating wayward strands of my own hair or having to flush dirt out of my contacts. The wind is unbelievable . Resolute. Never-ending. And strong enough to toss a girl — or at the very least, her hat — headlong into the Rhone, never to be seen again.

To be fair, Avignon is not famous for its beauty or its sites as much as for its convenience as a “base city” for touring the countryside. Tomorrow, we’ll be doing just that. And in spite of all this, we found some interesting things — a small but strong art collection (one that includes the only Van Goh still in Provence) housed in a lavishly decorated mansion; a hilltop garden behind the looming Palais de Papes with incredible views of the city; a tea salon with homemade cherry tarts; a store that sells heaps of green olive tapenade. There are good things to be had here. We’ve just had to tease them out a bit.