“A garden path,’ write the landscape architects Charles W. Moore, William J. Mitchell, and William Turnbull, ‘can become the thread of a plot, connecting moments and incidents into a narrative. The narrative structure might be a simple chain of events with a beginning, middle, and end. It might be embellished with diversions, digressions, and picaresque twists, be accompanied by parallel ways (subplots), or deceptively fork into blind alleys like the alternative scenarios explored in a detective novel.”
— Rebecca Solnit (Wanderlust: A History of Walking)

That first night in Provence was one that continually unfolded…

First, there was the dinner at the roadside restaurant that was reputed to have some ‘good’ food, but was one of the better meals that I’ve had, the food served in a back garden surrounded by roses, the wine coming from the next vineyard (from “right over there,” the waiter explained a gestured to the vines that were just beyond the terrace where we sat).

Then there was the nighttime wander around the old walled city of Mazan. In the dark it was so beautiful–every corner more charming than the one before. I snapped a few pics in the dark, knowing that I didn’t have the right lens for the dark lighting, but wanting to capture the mood, nonetheless.

Then there was the getting lost on the way back to the chambre d’hotes in the countryside. I learned that it’s a lot tougher to fine one’s way on narrow Provence ‘streets’ in the dark. That led to coming upon a small village fair in St. Didier–a place that I didn’t even know existed until losing my way and landing there. It looked as though all of the locals were out–teenagers gathered in dark corners, smoking, and older folks clapping their hands to the somewhat hoky musical performances on a small stage. There was cotton candy and carnival games. And no one seemed to notice the American stranger in their midst…

And, finally, there was A Cappella farm (after many detours and meanderings). I decided that even though the night was more than spent, I would still keep my plan to swim in the pool behind the house by starlight. It took forever to find my way down the stone garden steps in the dark (and I will confess to saying more than a few swear words as I stumbled along the path and hoped that no critters would jump out at me in the dark), but it was well worth the fear and trouble.

Because if one has the opportunity for a dip in the pool in the dark in Provence after a time of being lost and then being found, then one just has to take that chance when it comes–even if it’s a bit cold and dark and spidery along the pathway…

 

Jana Takes Europe 424, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

A favorite memory from my Europe travels: arriving in Paris in the early evening and then wandering Montmarte, climbing every single step to the top of the hill & then being overwhelmed at just how beautiful the city looked from up above. Then, walking the canals until settling on a small cafe for a traditional French meal. And much later, walking back to the hotel and realizing how tempting it was to stay up all night, my only night in Paris on this trip.
I know it’s sappy and romantic to have such huge affection for Paris…but every time I’m there, I simply can’t help myself…

The wish to travel seems to me characteristically human: the desire to move, to satisfy your curiosity or ease your fears, to change the circumstances of your life, to be a stranger, to make a friend, to experience an exotic landscape, to risk the unknown, to bear witness to the consequences, tragic or comic, of people possessed by the narcissism of minor differences. Chekhov said, “If you’re afraid of loneliness, don’t marry.” I would say, if you’re afraid of loneliness, don’t travel. The literature of travel shows the effects of solitude, sometimes mournful, more often enriching, now and then unexpectedly spiritual.
~Paul Theroux

Photo of one of my all-time favorite trips to Canterbury, England. Such an important journey for my pilgrim soul.