Panda loose in Provence

Ever ridden in a Fiat Panda? I have, jealous folks, (check that one off the lifelong dream list) and it is one sweet ride. I like its simplicity, its refusal to be a pretentious car -- its refusal, in fact, to be much of a car at all. Just a few pieces of sheet metal and some plastic knobs -- that's all I need when it comes to locomotion at high speeds on twisty roads in Provence.

You're a beast, Panda.

We were prepared for difficulties on our trip to Provence, as we had been told by anybody and everybody we were going to get hopelessly lost down there thanks to their refusal to name streets or assign addresses. But once Alex and I hopped in that Panda, it was like the patron saint of Fiat was with us in the back seat, albeit drinking a lot of wine and telling really offensive "yo mama" jokes.

Once Alex got reacquainted with his old, old friend the manual transmission with a few zips (and stalls) around the Avignon train station parking lot, we hit the road, maps in our sweaty little hands, expecting hopeless confusion and frustration. But, and I hate to brag but will, we got every single turn right. Even if it was a guess, yelled out at the last second in utter panic, it was right. And we sailed the forty-five minute drive from Avignon to our hotel in Gordes smoothly, guided by those Panda Lovegods. (That's going to be the name of our band.)

Gordes, the super old medieval town perched on a cliff, is one of the most gorgeous places I've ever stumbled into (literally -- those cobblestones are crooked and my choice of footwear ridiculous). I will put a picture here because there are few words to describe a place so beautiful without using expletives and I'm seriously trying to cut back on those -- though I did use a few while stumbling into Gordes.

We could have walked its narrow streets and looked out at the Luberon Valley forever but we had a damn wedding to go to. Stupid friends getting married all the time and ruining our vacation. Once the horrifically ugly maternity dress was donned, Alex and I attended what could possibly be the most beautiful wedding ever. And I'm not talking about the wedding itself; I'm talking about the guests.

This was a wedding attended mostly by French people, after all, and they are very good at whipping themselves up into objects of murderously enviable and unattainable beauty. And not just the women. The men ranked equally with their meticulously tailored suits, perfectly waved longish hair and impressive mastery of styling products and accessories.

Alex and I occasionally looked down at ourselves then turned and hugged until we felt better.

Alex was given the task of handing out the yarmulkes to the men at the traditional Jewish ceremony. After all men had one on their heads, Alex stood there with a basket still partially full of 'em and looked at me with big question marks in his eyes. Could he just set them on the ground? Or should he pray over them and set them on a bed of roses? We exchanged many looks and shrugs before he decided to ditch them in a planter and join me at our seats. Please forgive us for being so completely culturally and religiously ignorant.

Our friends are radiant and in love and beyond happy.  We are thrilled for them.  We do, however, take issue with their first decision as a married couple, and that was the decision to split up couples at the dinner tables.

This was a wedding full of super hot people (and French) and oooooooh boy, the drama that unfolded! I quickly befriended American Laura to my right because I needed a drama-spotting partner in crime and we spent the evening laughing ourselves silly over the claws and the dagger stares and the heated arguments occurring in the darker corners of the garden. What a hoot!

I thought Laura was my new BFF until she got hella drunk and told me she's seen a bunch of UFOs out her front window. There's really nowhere to go from there.


Other than the meticulous craftsmanship that went into each and every person and the perfection of the six course meal (when was the last time you licked your plate at a wedding?), the wedding pretty much played out like any other I've been to. Awkward small talk reigns until the champagne starts flowing and then every guest is your best friend. Women in high heels find themselves sinking into the soft ground. Toasts are made by people whose hands and voices are shaking. And of course, all hell breaks loose and dancing reaches a fever pitch soon after midnight. We watched as one lady lost hold of her dance partner and was spun straight into the dessert table. It was awesome.

We returned to Paris and my visiting family who had broken, mangled or been befuddled by every appliance we own during our absence. But they were so, so, SO great with the Loosh. And he great with them. Everyone was so great with us gone, in fact, that we should probably be gone most of the time.

We have a couple days left together and thus continue the tourist death marches across the city. Granted, they are slowing down a bit as we have all been stricken with "the cold." Our sight-seeing now includes conversations comparing symptoms and discussing who had the worst night's sleep.

But my family's a bunch of troopers even when sick and have seen nearly everything there is to see in Paris with rather large smiles on their faces. They did give up their will to live somewhere on the first level of the Eiffel Tower today but after seeing the crazy lines they encountered you wouldn't blame them.

Auntie Raba left for home yesterday and this has caused the Loosh much grief. Seeing family leave is not nearly as fun as seeing family arrive and I'm feeling sadness, which is an uncomfortable feeling and one I wish I could treat with alcohol but baby says no.

There is one final tourist attraction to tackle tomorrow, the Rodin museum, after which we will all fall on the ground and not move for many, many days. We all concur that having fun is exhausting.

Vive la Panda, mon chou,
MJ