As I examined my Arles for Van Gogh fans brochure, visiting the Old Roman cemetery, Alyscamps, where he painted his masterpiece “The Champs Elysesse of Arles” was of the utmost importance to me even though the site lay nearly a mile outside of the city walls. Despite his complaints of having to walk a mile to spend the afternoon in a cemetery, I was luckily able to convince Zach to join me, since I was totally unaware of the fact that I was about to walk into a classic Horror movie scene.
After fighting the strong gusts of wind and perusing through the weekly Saturday market on Arles’ main drag filled with the usual produce, baked goods, antiques, artwork, and flea market gems like cell phone chargers, random bicycle parts and failed “As Seen On TV” products, we finally had made our way to the entrance of the Alyscamps. The feeble elderly woman at the gate, who looked like she was soon to join the Romans buried within, gladly took our Euros and we proceeded down the path that sadly did not appear to be trodden by too many other Van Gogh fans…I thought that the distance from the city center must have deterred them.
Along the sides of the path, which was once a main thoroughfare towards Rome, were a series of often un-lidded stone coffins or sarcophagi, placed so that all making the journey, including ourselves, could pay our respects to those who came and fell before us. I was relieved to find that the Alyscamps wasn’t the tourist swamped site I have become accustomed to visiting, in fact, the site was totally abandoned, other than the skeleton selling tickets at the front gate, we were the only people walking around. As we made our way deeper and deeper into the cemetery, and further from civilization, Zach and I finally came upon a worn but beautiful church at the edge of the site. Assuming that like most other small churches we discover, that this one too would be closed, we were content to walk around taking in its abandoned ivy-covered exterior. As we rounded the corner to the far back of the church we found a single door propped open.
Even though there were no lights on inside of the church, there were enough dirty windows to let the natural light from this sunny, but windy, day in to illuminate the not surprisingly baron interior. Except for a few ornate sarcophagi placed in dimly lit side chapels, the church was empty. The total silence, only occasionally broken by the purring of a couple of pigeons, was eerie. I mean, we’re alone, inside of an abandoned church, surrounded by a 2000 year old cemetery…As if the being inside of the church wasn’t enough, Zach wanted to walk down into the crypt, whose daunting doorway lay downstairs beneath the alter. Not wanting to be left alone, but also not so eager to be exploring the crypt of this already creepy church, I reluctantly followed. No sooner had I crossed over the threshold into the crypt, than the silence was broken, I heard soft thuds from upstairs…they weren’t quite footsteps, but consistent thuds with a slight clatter of metal. I had become even more reluctant to continue the exploration on the crypt…the hair on my arms was standing on end and I was paranoidly checking over my shoulders just to make sure that there was nothing behind me…I took another step closer to examine another tomb partially illuminated by the sun pouring in through the windows when suddenly the soft thuds turned into slams, dense pounding from up inside the church that made the pigeons disperse and begin their swalking. At this point it was clear that I was no longer going to continue exploring and I ran up the stairs and out of the church…Outside the wind was blowing more fiercely that it had earlier in the morning and was blowing up dirt and leaves which swirled around me as I ran from the church. As I turned back I saw Zach, laughing hysterically, running behind me, and when he caught up he snidely informed me that the source of my panic was in fact the locked front door of the church, clattering in the wind.
The next day, in an attempt to stay as far away from creepy churches as we could, we headed to Nice to take in the fun in the sun of the French Riviera. The beach is my hands-down favorite vacation spot, and what could possibly be better than the Mecca of the beach bathing lifestyle…While I had planned on us going and seeing the sights of Nice, it was imperative to me that we spend several hours lying in the warm sand, soaking up the rays, feeling the cool Mediterranean breezes. Being away from school and my unlimited visits to the high pressure tanning bed, my golden glow has begun to fade and I was determined to regain at least some of it.
As we were entering the city on the train, I could see the beach and some of my fellow sun worshippers, my excitement had built so much that as soon as the train stopped I was leaping off and headed for the hotel so that I could change into my swim suit and classy beach attire, I mean this is the French Riveria, one has to be classy. I had wanted to buy a big hat, like an uber glam floppy sun hat, but Zach told me that was excessive…Leaving our hotel, which was conveniently located just a block behind the legendary Negresso Hotel, and approaching the Promenade des Anglais, or the “Prom” as those in the know refer to it as, I was brought back to another day and age when the Prom in Nice would have been star studded, a real place to see and be seen…I could just see movie stars like Clark Gable, Judy Garland, and maybe even Marilyn Monroe strolling along the Prom, dressed to the nines…and As I crossed the road nearly floating on my excitement I was brought down quickly when I took my first step onto the “beach”, if you could even call it that. Instead of the powdery white, soft sand that I have become so accoustomed to on beaches in Florida, the Carolina’s or the Carribbean, there were rocks, and not just a few pebbles, but like hardcore baseball sized rocks. Had something happened? Was there a hurricane that had taken away the sand? I mean this is the Mediterranean, I didn’t really think they had hurricanes but I mean it’s possible…No. I soon found out that the rocks have been on the beach here since the beginning, there was never any sand…since its inception as the Granddaddy of the Beach culture, the French Rivera has been nothing more than a gravel pit.
Determined to not let this obnoxious gravel stand in my way of resurrecting my tan, I braved the rocks, which aside from being unsightly, were also tremendously difficult to walk on. Finding a nice, unoccupied stretch of gravel, I squatted down and wiggled, hoping to carve myself out a somewhat comfortable niche in the rocks. Despite my determination, I could not get comfortable and was forced to abandon my effort; Zach was truly devastated because he too was also really looking forward to laying out…Instead of laying out, we continued our stroll of the Promenade people watching as we went. I was totally shocked at the number of women who felt the need to tan topless. I mean, I understand tan lines, however, I am always content to just pull down the straps of my suit, never having the audacity to think of tanning topless…and the worse part was, these weren’t just young girls my age. Most of the topless bronze goddesses were old women - old, wrinkly, flabby women with similarly characteristic boobs…
Long story short : Nice, maybe not so nice….
This weekend we are only heading on a short trip up to Belgium, going to Brussels and possibly Bruges. Pictures from this weekend’s trip are up in four albums on my web shots page. Check out “Avignon!” “Nimes!” “Arles!” and “Nice!” at
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