From Bern to Avignon

In the evening I meet Mr Marek in Bern. He is exactly the same as he was two years ago in Regensburg. We go to the old town. I invite him to dinner for his birthday. The cuisine in Bern is much more French. My duck breast in orange and port wine sauce explodes in my mouth. The declared goal for the next two weeks: to gain less than 1kg a day.

The second stop of the evening is an old school building. The gymnasium now houses a bar. Previously all for, now all against health. We then move on to the riding hall, a former squat. Marek tells stories of junkies who shot up in front of him in the pub. Today, Biedermeier people smoke weed here.

I set off early the next morning. I have 500 kilometres to Avignon ahead of me. On the way, I make the mistake of taking the motorway from the Rhone valley onwards. Result: hardly any time gained and a nice eight euro toll for 80 kilometres. I have nothing against robber barons, but if using the motorway costs more per kilometre than the fuel for it, then the ratios are simply no longer right. I only drive the rest of the way to Barcelona on country roads. That way I see more and the bends keep me awake.

I arrive in Avignon just as the sun is setting at a pleasant 10 degrees. The Provencal sky is glowing, the lavender stumps are standing around a little naked and tired in the landscape. I move into a village bed in a small hostel near the Avignon bridge. Firstly, it’s nostalgic, because it’s like my beds on the whole trip round the world. Secondly, it’s a nice contrast to Switzerland because it’s old, a bit grubby and mercilessly cheap.

In the evening, I walk through the old town of Avignon. The Pope once had a nice little gothic house built here. It’s half the size of the old town, which is very big. I lose myself in the other half for three hours. Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Renaissance and Classicism in white limestone. The city of light. Hundreds of shops, fine Provencal restaurants, ancient history and bustling life.

I buy nougat with figs, read menus here and snoop in entrances there. My French is pretty rusty. But that doesn’t stop French people from responding to my bumpy five-word questions with the most eloquent epics. Most of the time I can only smile stupidly in thanks, while the Monday painters do their work in my head.

My farewell from Avignon is another gourmet meal at the Cour du Louvre. The French words alone sound as good as it tastes: Terrine St.Pierre au Salade vert avec Crème de Champagne. Dourade Provencale aux legumes avec Riz de Safran. Assiette Gourmand, bon appetit et bonne nuit.