Well, we were relieved until a man in a polo shirt stepped in front of us.
“C’est complet,” he said, hands on his hips, “désolé. Prenez le prochain.”
“What did he say?” I’m ashamed at how tightly I grabbed Valentin’s arm. “What’s he saying?”
“The bus is full.” He wasn’t even looking at me. Instead, he stared at the people in front of us paying the bus driver, who were pretending not to notice our situation. The driver didn’t even make eye contact. The man in the polo shirt climbed into the bus behind the other tourists in their floppy straw sunhats.
“It’s full?” My eyes swept the rest of the complex. None of the busses had the same decals as this one, and I realized it really was our only ride out of here. “But the next one…”
This scavenger hunt was bad for my heart. It kept falling and almost shattering on a daily basis.
“So we just wasted a day, didn’t we?” I said, feeling quite suddenly on the verge of tears. Being at the mercy of these stupid busses was really bringing out the worst in me. “We have to go back, and call it quits, and…”
“Why do you always panic?” he asked, “it’s going to be ok. It’s just a bus. We can go tomorrow. We are in no rush.”
How Valentin managed to stay so calm, I would never know. There was just something so soothing about the way he spoke, how he never let himself be defeated. Not to mention the way he always pronounced it’s as iz. I offered up a smile.
“C’est bon, vous avez de la chance, il ne reste que deux places!” Blue polo man announced as he stepped off the bus. Wearing sunglasses indoors, as one does.
“Wait, that sounded good. Was that good?” I asked Valentin.
“It’s perfect, there are two spots left,” he said, beaming, “probably not next to each other, though.”
“I’ll survive,” I replied, then was surprised to see his smile droop just a little. He turned around before I could make anything of it, hopping onto the bus and swiping his card.
The bus had everything I hated about buses: it was cramped, hot, and crowded. It seemed everyone riding it was a tourist. I had to turn sideways in the aisle to avoid the big camera bags on people’s laps, or the sunhats lazily held out past the seats.
Please let the person next to me be cool, please let them be cool, I chanted in my head, scanning the seats for the free space the polo guy had claimed to have found. When I finally spotted it, it was in the middle of the bus, aisle side, next to a middle-aged blonde woman who was fanning herself with the bus schedule.
I cast a glance back, trying to find Valentin. He was in the aisle in the before last, sitting next to a person who could have been my bus-mate’s twin. It was impressive how much the two looked the same, down to the heavily gilded fan-waving hands.
The bus pulled out of the station and into the daylight. We were off, an electronic voice listing off stations and stops as we approached them, which was not often. We were going to cover a lot of ground before getting to Les Baux.
I must have been getting used to fading out the cicadas, because I didn’t notice the constant background noise of people speaking until we were well underway, and by then it only hit me when I started picking up on conversation.
English. Everyone was speaking English.
Well, almost everyone. I think there was some German here, Spanish coming from one end of the bus. French was there in pockets. But the massive brouhaha was all in English; American English. Laughing, chatting, making whatever that frat boy ‘OOH’ sound is called.
The gilded, sunhatted woman turned towards me, glanced me over, said nothing, and went back to looking out the window at the passing French countryside. I stared straight down the aisle, past the hats and the photography kits, through the front window at the road ahead. The abundance of green fields was almost staggering.
“I don’t know what she sees in him,” the girl in front of me said to her friend, “I mean, he’s like, never left his home town. I mean, I get it, some people just like their comfort zone, you know? But I can’t be with someone who doesn’t get it.”
“Preach,” replied her friend, “Look, after we get home tonight, I gotta ditch the group. Dad’s got his friends over for a business thing, and he wants me to join them for dinner. I keep telling him I want to do this whole European adventure on my own, you know? But he insists on basically stalking me.”
“It’s so weird,” said the other, tisking, “like, why can’t he accept the fact that you’re on your own?”
“He says since it’s his money, he should know where I am. Is that creepy?”
“My mom doesn’t care where I go so long as there’s lavender hand cream for her when I get back,” said the first, “That’s the point of having our own adventure. Our experience. It’s like, thanks for the tickets, could you please go now? I’m my own person, thank you very much.”
The woman next to me stopped fanning herself for a second and turned to me as if I was a part of their conversation. I just shook my head.
“I just want to soak in the culture,” said the second girl, “and I can’t do that with dad constantly over my shoulder. I mean, how am I supposed to see what it is to be a local, if I’m eating at Michelin star restaurants every night? Locals can’t afford those places. They’re not meant for them.”
“It’s better than the street food I’ve been forced to have. Not a salad bar in sight. Do you know what they call a Taco in Marseille? I swear, it’s a burger inside a burrito. Fries, salad, tomato and all. It’s disgusting.”
My mouth started to water at the sound of that. Burger burrito? Sign me up! We should have stopped for one on our way through Marseille during the Cassis leg of our mission.
“Ne fais pas attention à eux,” said my seatmate.
“Je suis désolée,” I said, practically stammering, tripping over the words as they stumbled out of my mouth, “Mon Français est très mal.”
“Ce n’est pas grave, Bichette, au moins tu fais un effort.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she had just said, but it sure sounded like a compliment.
“Tu vas aux Baux de Provence?” she asked, “ou St Rémy?”
“Um,” I answered, awkwardly. St Rémy I remember seeing on the list of stops this bus too. No Oboes in sight. Wait. Les Baux. Aux Baux?
“Je visite Les Baux,” I answered, hoping I had guessed correctly, “The castle. Le chateau?”
She smiled gently. “Je vais aux Carrières des Lumières,” she explained. “J’y vais chaque année, mais j’ai pas encore vu celui-ci…”
“Je suis désolée,” I apologized again, “Je n’ai pas… words?”
She patted me gently on the arm. “Iz Ok. You have nice day. Must see art show. Iz very good.”
An hour later, the bus climbed a hill up to the fortress town of Les-Baux-de-Provence. Valentin had filled me in on the history: that the castle was under siege when the country was torn by religion almost a thousand years ago, that the townspeople themselves had dismantled it as an accord with the king and swore never to rebuild it in order for their town to survive, a promise they had kept for now 800 years.
It was a steep road, but it levelled off in between the two peaks, which is where the bus left us. I stepped away from the crowd, waiting for Valentin to appear. He looked dizzy as he climbed off the bus.
“Ca va?” I threw out, “you ok?”
“Juste… a lot of talking,” he replied, “good practice. But tiring. Exhausting.”
My seatmate had been silent the entire rest of the trip, only sighing occasionally when the two girls ahead of us said something particularly nauseating. I watched them climb off the bus now, two almost identically dressed girls, with selfie sticks at the ready.
We stood in the parking lot, which made it rather difficult to take in our surroundings. Up on the right ridge lay the entrance to a small stone town, a lot like Lourmarin, except for the part where it was perched on an actual cliff instead of down in a valley. Down to our l
eft, the road sloped away through what appeared to be a limestone quarry. The rocks were cut too sharp and angular to be natural.
“Is this the place?” I asked, scanning the parking lot. There wasn’t another space available for cars in sight, it was that packed. People milled around, tour groups with orange flags on poles, kids chasing each other and squealing excitedly.
“Probably,” said Valentin, shrugging, “but I have something to show you, first. Come!”
Along with the flock of tourists, we strolled into town. The place was incredible: tall stone houses rose on either sides of an incredibly narrow and steep street, more than any of the roads I had pedaled over in Lourmarin, tighter and older looking than Moustiers. Stores on either sides sold Gelato and sweets, some toting plastic swords and knight’s helmets. It was like a Ren faire on steroids.
Valentin didn’t seem to want to stop at any of those. Instead he led me along the long street, up and up and up, until we reached a metal gate that blocked the road.
“We’re going to the ruins first?” I asked, “but the clue…”
“Has been there seventeen years,” he said, “it can wait another hour. Come!”
We stepped into the visitor’s center and Valentin grabbed us day passes, handing me mine and crossing the turnstile.
“When I was a child, my parents brought me every summer,” he said, “many times. It is the best.”
We stepped out onto a gravel path, the sky so intense and blue above us I thought we might need a new name for the color. We were at the highest point around, nothing to break the horizon but more sky.
Oh, and the catapults in the middle of the lawn.
Two men dressed in medieval clothes were talking to a crowd that had assembled around them. In French, of course, but the way they were pointing, and gesticulating made most of what they were saying obvious.
“Valentin,” I asked, reaching again for his arm to support me, “don’t tell me we’re going to learn how catapults work.”
“No, we’re not,” he said, “we’re going to learn how the baricole works. By launching it.”
And then, in one swift move, he took my arm and lifted it into the air, like I was raising my hand along with the rest of the crowd.
“Oh my god, what did I just agree to?” I stammered.
“You’re going to launch the women’s catapult. But don’t worry, you’re not alone. Go!”
He shoved me forward, taking my bag in the process. Me and about five other ladies stepped forward, as the medieval man continued to talk. Up close, the baricole was even more massive than I ever imagined, but the trebuchet next to it was even larger. It could have been forty feet tall for all I could tell.
The man was going over safety procedures, but I didn’t follow. The other women were pumped, so I just did as they did. We pulled back a crank, turning and turning and turning, until the man told us to step back, and fired. The white-water balloon soared through the air, crashing down well before the man’s partner, who yelled something that made the crowd laugh.
The trebuchet didn’t even get close to the man. The projectile soared right off the cliff.
“That was amazing!” I said to Valentin as the crowd dispersed. My hands tingled with the thrill of it. “I mean, I’m not sure what the man was saying, but it was epic. I never got to do anything like that before.”
This made Valentin’s amazing smile grow tenfold.
“Isn’t it amazing?” He asked, leading me towards the ruins. Taking up the highest point of the cliff, a massive wall remained, but not much else. “Every summer they do animations for visitors. You ever shoot an arbalette?”
“An arbalette?”
He meant crossbow. And no, I hadn’t - until today. The line for the shooting range was filled with kids half our height, slipping through the rows to poke their friends, but the guys managing the stand seemed relieved to have us. Valentin hit a bull’s eye on the first shot. I was close, surprised by how easy it was to aim.
“Do you want to see the big one?” Asked the guide excitedly, the straps of his leather cap swaying as he spoke.
He led us into a shed next to the stand, and behold, there stood the biggest crossbow I had ever seen. It was easily larger than me, the arrow itself as sturdy as a sword.
“Armor piercing. Go,” he instructed.
We aimed with the crank. Fired. Bull’s eye.
There was everything in this town. Jousting, with men in full knight’s gear. Different knights demonstrating sword fighting but pounding on each other so hard I thought for sure one would lose a limb. Valentin and I took turns putting our heads through the stocks, all the stress of this morning forgotten.
There was only one thing left to do in the castle before lunch, and that was climbing to the top of the remaining ramparts. The stones were slick with age, and so narrow you had to grab the railings just to make it up.
But dad was right: nothing beat this view.
We stood at the highest point for miles. Around us was farmland stretching in every direction, dotted with towns here and there in the distance. Out far, far away, I could see the Mediterranean, the blue water fading into the sky so that you could barely make out the horizon.
In that moment, I felt completely and irrevocably in love with the world.
I insisted we try to find the same restaurant my parents ate at in the letter, feeling so pumped up that nothing could stop me. The universe delivered, and on our way back down the hill, we found a corner restaurant which served Nordic crepes. Valentin and I squeezed into a small two-person table, ordered, and finally let ourselves relax.
My heart had been pounding since I launched that first projectile. I had never felt so powerful before, and shooting the crossbow only made me feel bolder. Everything was possible after what we had just done.
“I can’t wait to find the clue,” I said to Valentin, “I can totally see why my parents loved this place. I want to know where dad sends us next.”
“Breathe, Jammy.” He poured us water, filling my glass without even asking. “We will go after food. You have to see the Carrières, though. This year’s theme is Picasso. You won’t believe it.”
“The Carrières? Is that the light show my parents went to? I thought dad called it the Cathedral.”
He nodded. “It changed hands, has a new name. It is even more amazing now.”
“Ok, after we find the clue, we’ll do that,” I agreed. “I want to see everything dad saw.”
First Cassis, now this. Provence was heaven on a plate.
I felt a chill as I remembered why I was here. This was meant to be my punishment: I could not be enjoying it. I needed a way to remind myself to stay on mission, so I wouldn’t forget what really brought me here. It wasn’t a vacation, it was my penance.
Valentin must have noticed my frown. “Jamie,” he said, making a great effort to pronounce my name right this time, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head, “just hungry. Tired all of a sudden.”
“Oh, coup de barre?” he asked. I gave him my patented quizzical ‘what kind of French is this?’ look. “That’s what we call it when you suddenly… loose battery.”
I gave him a weak smile. “Coo de bar, then.”
The waiter arrived with our plates then, two steaming crepes folded into squares. Mine had a beautiful egg on top, so lovely I would be heartbroken to take a knife to it. But I still did.
“Tonic water,” I hear a voice call. My eyes lift from my plate as I search for the source of the commotion. A woman in a red blouse was confronting a waitress. “I said tonic water, are you deaf?”
The waitress is shaking her head. “We do not have.”
“You have to, I mean what restaurant doesn’t have tonic water? Do you need me to spell that for you?” She reached for the waitress’s pad. The young woman wasn’t fast enough, and the stranger grabbed it, ripping the notepad and pencil from the waitress’s hands and scrawling on the paper, still yelling. “
TONIC WATER!”
“Mais Madame… Ma’am, we do not have. I can get you… sparkling?”
“No, I don’t want sparkling! Are you an idiot? I want your manager!”
The waitress dashed off, obviously shaken. The woman turned to her husband, who hadn’t said a word this whole time. She, however, had a face all puffed up and red, and smoke coming out of her ears. Literally fuming.
“The nerve of some people. She could make an effort, don’t you think?”
“Yes, dear,” said the husband.
The rest of the restaurant was silent. People went back to their meals, visibly uncomfortable now. I turned to Valentin, but he didn’t seem surprised by any of this.
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Tourists… the bad ones make it hard for everybody.”
After the meal - closed with a Nutella dessert crepe, wrapped in foil to go - we headed back towards the parking lot. Every bite was pure bliss, the Nutella running through my veins and giving my heart a warm squeeze. Love in food form.
I was all ready to scour the place for the next one of my father’s clues, when we turned the corner and saw the three tour busses, stuck trying to pass each other. The air was filled with honking, and tourists making mad dashes across the road.
“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath.
The entire parking lot was in shambles. People were trying to find their groups, getting confused between the similar looking busses; while others were just trying to move their cars, but of course the roads were entirely blocked. Drivers shouted at each other and tourists as they tried to untangle their mess. There was no way we were getting through.
“Ok,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment, “I guess we wait on the clue?”
“I’d much rather try to find it while the entire world is here.” I had to untangle the features of his face to make sure this was sarcasm, but he flashed one of those winning smiles and I knew that it was. “Come on. Let’s go see the art.”
Aix Marks the Spot Page 11
