The pizza is not what I expected. But that’s all right. I had no expectations about pizza. Indeed, I had no plans to eat pizza. But the time and the place and the menu conspired to place pizza before me. And so I ate. The Marguerita pizza was unlike any other I’ve had; not particularly bad, but not something for which I will clamor in the future. The other pizza, I forget what it was called, was decent, but not memorable. The water and wine helped. Two pizzas, shared by three of us, proved sufficient. Rick Steves said nice things about the restaurant, which is in a square near the Arles arena. But I cannot recall the restaurant’s name. No matter; I doubt I’ll return.
Ah, you’ll want to remember this, which I learned a few days ago: St. George is the patron saint of horsemen, known as gardians around these parts…or, at least, in the Camargue. Let me tell you, the Camargue was an unexpected delight, what with the horses, the bulls, the pink flamingoes, and the topography of South Texas and the Gulf coast. The Camargue horse, white and powerful and gentle, are known to anticipate the movements of black bulls even before the bull thinks about moving. Magical, yes?
No one knows why Van Go0gh stopped in Arles. There’s speculation, of course, because that’s what people do. But we know he did. I suspect it was the amphitheater; if I had been Vincent Van Gogh (and who’s to say I was not?), that’s why I would have stopped here. That, or the light or the wine. The sky here, that is the light, is glorious blue, the blue one associates with Arles. I also associate Marie Flore and Joan Baez with Arles, but that’s just musical memory talking.
Today, we walk and wander more. And eat. And drink wine. Because that is what one does in Arles, especially in the days before moving on to villages outside of Avignon.
I considered bringing my notebook computer with me so I could blog more easily, but I did not. So, this hen peck of a note must do for now, until my finger consents to more pecking.