Up the Steep Calades to Gordes

In doing my best to speak and understand French every day, I’ve learned that it is more important to understand than to be understood. I can see it in the other person’s eyes when I’ve succeeded in communicating that I know what the person is saying. It makes all the difference in the world. I can speak French like a Spanish cow all day long and if it’s felt that I understand, the rapport is good and there is a flow of communication. 

And as I think about it over coffee, orange juice, pastries, and a boiled egg in the beautiful salle de petit déjeuner at Les Sables d’Ocre in Roussillon, this applies even when the two speakers are in their native tongues. Even in English, I can do better, I can always do better, at truly listening and understanding what the other person is saying. And maybe most importantly, communicating that I understand. 

I’m still not feeling well this morning, so I take time over breakfast, fueling mentally and physically for the long walk ahead. The cell phone map indicates that it’s 8.6 kilometers, or just over 5 miles, to walk from Roussillon to Gordes. 

I leave everything in good order in the room and speak with the witty owner a little before walking back up to the russet pigment town on the hill, this time with my backpack strapped on. I linger a bit on the tight winding streets, soaking up the beauty as long as I can as if I’m trying to fill up my soul with Roussillon so that I can carry it with me walking down the other side of the hill and on the road to Gordes.

There are homes and garages built into the rock, something I view with a similar awe as watching fruit grow from a tree. Both will never cease to fascinate me.

At first the road to Gordes leads into cool and protective woods filled with bird song. As I walk, I hear a poem in my head. Too bad there is no opportunity to write it down. It’s something like this:

The birds speak
if you listen.

Before
in another country
the birds would say
vite vite, vite vite
like scolding mothers
warning that it’s passing away,
time sifts
and only what we’ve made of it remains,
vite vite, vite vite
a shrill invitation to hurry.

But rush makes 
only so much rush.

The French know this,
so in France,
a world away,
I hear the same kind of birds
in different words.

dites dites, dites dites
it’s so alluring,
the idea that I could say something
that could be heard,
that a telepathy of words
could come alive for you right now,
fly off this page
flapping and soaring
creating something good.

dites dites, dites dites
navigation charts
that’s all that words are.

dites dites, dites dites
if I had something to say,
it would be 
help when you can,
ring whatever bell remains, 
cracks and all,
seek to understand
rather than be understood.

I’ll write down what I can remember of it later in my journal and maybe a poem will emerge. We’ll see. So much of poetry is simply remembering.

I keep walking in the soothing woods. A few serious bicycle riders whizz past. I call out, “Bonjour!” Indeed, it is.

I emerge from the woods and into a series of vineyards. There are signs for different Domaines, the designation for wine producing businesses. Domaine de Tara. Domaine Girod. Sometimes, there is a sign indicating that the Domaine is open for tasting. I consider stopping, but remember that I have a cold I’m ignoring and decide to look for an opportunity another time. Above all in France, la politesse. I pass a plant nursery, Pépinière Appy. 

Soon, I am walking amid a vast valley of vineyards toward the sand-colored hill town of Joucas. There is something appealing about grape plants growing in rows, colored red and yellow with autumn, and I wonder if I will ever have the chance to learn to work in a vineyard. 

When I see the sign indicating that Gordes is classed among “Les Plus Beaux Villages de France,” the steep climb to the top begins. It seems like it will never end. I stop frequently to gaze over the broad valley. 

Approaching the top, there is a fascinating stone walkway that I later find out is called a “calade.” Made of small stones, it’s a walkway for donkeys, mules, and carts from ancient times. The steep one I’m on has fascinating tiny little stairsteps built into the middle of it. I imagine a farmer walking those steps while his donkey and cart roll up at his side. I am red faced and exhausted from the steep relentless climb, but think how exhausted the farmer must have been. 

There are houses built into the rock beside me and a good excuse to rest is to just stand and look at them in awe. There is a gentle ascent up a beautiful narrow road with a black dining placard scrawled in French chalk at its end, dangling the reward of a meal around the corner. 

La Terrasse de Gordes is tucked into the side of the hill. There’s still more to climb to get to the very top, but it is a wonderful place to refuel. I step into the small restaurant, looking more like someone’s home, and immediately the smell of slow cooking overwhelms me with hunger. I ask about le déjeuner, hoping it is not too late. It is not. I sit at a table just outside the door where I take off my pack and let my sweaty back and shoulders dry in the cool air. 

The menu placard I saw walking up the narrow street is right in front of me, so I can prepare my selections.

Entrée and Plat or Plat and Dessert for 18 Euros. Entrée, Plat and Dessert for 21 Euros.

The Entrée choices are flan de crabe, sauce citronée (crab flan in a lemon sauce) or buschetta à la provençal (little toasted breads with olives and tomatoes). The Plat choices are camembert roti avec ses pommes de terre (roasted Camembert with potatoes) or magret de canard, sauce balsamique (seared duck breast with balsamic sauce). And the desserts are trilogie de petits desserts (three little desserts) or crème brûlée. Definitely all three and since everything sounds good, I have no idea what to choose! And below the menu is written Fait Maison, or homemade, just to add to the enticement.

What do you guess that I choose while sitting in the cool breeze, my red face recovering, enjoying the cobblestone road and the tight-packed stone wall sprawling with deep red ivy?

As much as I love the sound of everything on the menu, when the time comes, I say, “Je vais prendre le flan de crabe, le camembert roti, et la trilogie de petits desserts, s’il vous plait. Et aussi, un verre de vin rouge.” 

Crème brûlée is one of my favorite desserts, but I find that throughout France I enjoy best the three little desserts that are often served with le menu formule. Sometimes, crème brûlée is one of them in an unspeakably tiny thimble of a dish. Cute in varied little cups with tiny spoons and with varied flavors of chocolate, berries, citrons, and cremes, you cannot go wrong with the three little desserts. Often called café gourmand, they generally come with a little cup of espresso.

A family happens along the cobbled street. Catching their breath after the winded walk up, they stop to read the menu sign and discuss whether or not this is the place to eat. The language sounds Italian. Then, I hear some specific Spanish words. Then, I recognize some French words. And there is a Dracula sound tossed in. Yep, has to be the everything Romance language: Portuguese.

They end up sitting right near me, so I meet them. Mother, father, and their college-age daughter who just moved to Marseille to study cosmetics, all from Brazil. They share photographs of their beautiful homeland with its green growth and sun and beaches. The daughter acts as rosetta stone with both me and the waitress because her parents speak neither English nor French. 

Refreshed after a meal and conversation, I complete the climb to the round-about plaza at the top of Gordes and walk its winding streets filled with art galleries. One of my favorite artists, Marc Chagall, once lived in Gordes. 

The town’s name came from the original Celtic settlement of Vordense, which was later occupied by Rome. During World War II, Gordes was known as a center of the Resistance and it was bombed by the German army in August 1944. 

In the central square, le Château de Gordes was originally built in 1031. I pay a small admission fee to walk around inside. There is a display about the history of Gordes to enjoy, however, there are a number of modern art displays tucked into various rooms. I like modern art. I just prefer to experience a historic site without the anachronistic distraction of modern art. I like to think about the history and imagine how the people used to live at a place. With modern art on display, it feels like Shakespeare set in 2010. 

Afterward, I visit an enchanting fabric store with beautiful colors and patterns unique to Provence. I’m not often drawn to fabrics, but there is something particularly wonderful about the warm colors and designs of les Tissus de Provence. I enter some art galleries and meet an impressionist watercolor artist.

I find a nice little hotel, Le Mas des Romarins, tucked away just to the west of the town for 106,10 euros for the night without le petit déjeuner. Small, sparse and very white, it is a lot like an Ibis Hotel room. Fighting a constantly runny nose, I hunker down, watch French television, decide I probably have a crush on François Busnel, and sleep early.

Next France for Two Months: Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse

This is #12 in a series of stories: France for Two Months. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1.   Santa Fe Depot Departure
2.   Return to the Great Lady
3.   Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4.   Paris Stroll
5.   Paris – des heures exquises
6.   Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7.   Château de Ripaille
8.   Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9.   Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon