walled city

I stood alone in ancient laneway, stone buildings compressing me on either side. Through the distant clatter of the city a sweet note began to rise and then became a pretty melody. My eyes darted for the source, the music grew louder and then a violist stepped through a gap and wandered slowly, across my line of vision and disappeared, all the time playing, never glancing my way. Avignon was filled with little surprises like this, a fortified city, a maze of cobblestone streets.

Picnics on the top of the world, a golden Jesus just out of sight. While Dylan ran a guy, practicing soccer ball tricks, kept misjudging and the ball would roll my way. He’d apologise and say longer French sentences to me with every miss. I nodded and smiled, pretending I knew what he was saying. Why do we do that? I guess there was a point where it would have been embarrassing to admit I’d let him chatter away without understanding a word.

We stumbled upon the alternative quarter (as we always do, drawn by some invisible hipster compass), and found ourselves surrounded by shops selling Indian clothes, all sequins and silk, veggie burgers and vintage. We watched a dread headed man going through a dumpster and wondered, “Hipster or Homeless?”. In the main square similar, drop crocheted individuals busked. One on guitar with talent, one rolling a ball on her arms and back without. The carousel span and we bid Provence goodbye.