ALONG THE WAY
June 4 2012
We awoke at dawn, the air, still carrying the cool of the night, was filled with birdsong as if every winged creature had set its alarm for the same moment. What, exactly, awakens birds? Obviously not an avian alarm, their uproarious song is far too joyous to have been rudely pulled from sleep. We lay for some minutes listening and then breakfasted and packed the car, leaving the lovely Luberon behind until la prochain fois.
Six hours later, after 3 pit stops and miles of tunnels and turns along the Italian Riviera, we are poolside at the Grand Bristol Hotel in Rapallo, looking across a short stretch of sea to Portofino. But before the Luberon fades completely from view I want to tell the tale of the cherry ladies.
We first espied them in the woods alongside the rugged road to Lourmarin, but as we were running late for the market decided to stop on the way back, some 2 hours later, hoping they would still be there. And so they were. A little tribe of 3: 2 women and a man, presumably a husband, the latter asleep on a blanket behind the picnic cooler while the women played cards at a little folding table. A straw basket hung from a branch, while under another tree, wooden boxes of cherries were lovely arranged like bassinets in a nursery. Another, longer table was filled with cartons of cherries and homemade jams.
We pulled the car into a clearing in the woods and the women left their game of cards and sauntered over to their produce; hubby, who had obviously put out his do not disturb sign, remained prone.
There are moments such as these, when traveling, that seem to magically or magnetically pull strangers together and for a few minutes the strangers become intimates. It has nothing to do with anything we normally allow in through our complicated process of screening. No recognizable code of dress is needed to attract each other, but something pure and simple in each of us responds to the other and we want to rub up against it.
They offered their wares, in this case the jams and cherries, with absolutely no aggression. They were simply there, hanging out in a patch of dappled woods, probably since early morning. Perhaps they had caught the market rush, but they were in no rush; a picnic lunch, a siesta, a game of cards and come what may. We fell into easy chatter, as if we were suddenly fluent in French, urged to sample the cherries, informed as to their method of jam-making. We oohed and aahed, the women and I cackling like the kindred hags we are.
Meanwhile, Joel brought our wares from the car: our Provence book, of which we have one sample copy. We watched as the women now oohed and aahed over our produce. We shared a little of our process. They looked at every page and judged ‘our’ Provence to be the real thing. We were all gratified.
As we drove away I felt deeply moved by how at home these people are. Home for them is not a triplex with a roof garden. It is the honesty of their simple, rooted life; it is each other, the game of cards, the cherries, laughter, a simple lunch, a nap, some natural shade on a hot day and a meeting with strangers from a far away land.