Two photo things in a row. You can blame Tally (for coming up with the favorite photo tag and getting me looking at scores–or more accurately–hundreds of old photos) and Fanta (for explaining to me that I should use macro to take pics of pics) for this post, but I just can’t help myself. I think I’m that lonely old lady who sits in her house, with her cats, and rifles through her curling sepia prints waiting to pounce on the next person who rings the bell to regale them with tales of her lost youth. Guess you’ve just rung the bell.
So this one time, at band camp . . . well, not band camp so much as France. Anyway, I was in France and took some photos (the thrills of the tale are breath taking, aren’t they? The way I wove the moment with words and wit . . . astounding).
Or that whole picture’s worth a blah blah blah . . .
That’s an alley in France. I think it might be in Arles. Or in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. One of those.
This one was definitely taken in Arles, if you know Van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace at Night this will look familiar. And if you don’t . . . yellow. Pretty. Like Spongebob and daffodils, two of my favorite things.
That one time, in France, we went down to Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer, as mentioned above, and as it’s a coastal town, got a nice view of the Mediterranean Sea.
The narrow beach between the cars and the water was topless. Well, the beach wasn’t topless, but the sunbathers were. Even the men. I was all prudish and American and didn’t do it, and now, don’t you know I regret it. But I have to wonder (as I do with those 20/20 regrets) if whisked back there again, if I’d actually do it, or if I just think that I would. Now that I’m far far away and can’t possibly be held to it.
Another thing that I learned while I was there is that I am not a “worthy” spectator of the bullfight. Or maybe there were inartistic fighters or poor bulls, as Hemingway would say. Either way, it didn’t work for me. I’d read Death in the Afternoon the year or two before this trip, and I had it in my head that bullfighting was art, passion, ritual. That Hemingway, such a writer is he that I was longing to see this spectacle . . .
Now, this is not Pamplona, Spain, so it wasn’t a running of the bulls in that sense; no, this was Saints blah blah in the South of France, so what you see above is the whole thing. Well, there was a bull, too. And some cows. According to my memory (now) of Hemingway, the cows calm the bull. Or some such. Anyway, I was a bit nervous and didn’t come out of the shop until the scary bulls and scary cows had run by. Thus the back end of the horses. But still, picadors (or whatever). And you can see the bullring behind there, with all the people watching the bulls run into the holding area place.
The inside of the ring, with the picador peeps riding out. For those of you who don’t know, they jab and poke at the bull until it’s bleeding and weak and tired, and then the bullfighter guy comes in and swishes his cape around until he deals the death blow to the bull–a sword through the skull. Hemingway writes it way better than I do, though. Besides, my perspective isn’t the best on it, really. As I wasn’t there for that part. Any of the parts, really, as you’ll soon learn.
I think this is actually a cow that they play with before the bullfight. I know I left before the matador came out, because I started crying. Weeping and sobbing and shaking and a bit faint, actually. Very embarrassing.
Okay, so now that I’ve typed all this, I’m wondering if this is “mature” content? Not the not topless sunbathing, the bull fighting.
Anyway, so what’s a fun walk down memory lane on a Sunday without a Shoe Sunday pic? (okay, so my segue is off; actually, that probably can’t even be called a segue, can it?)
No, I didn’t throw my shoe at my cat, they were standing all nice, but she pounced on the strap and pulled it over on herself.
I love these platform shoes, though with a 4″ heel, I don’t wear them often. As you can tell by their virgin bottoms. Um, okay, now I know I’m clicking “mature content,” can’t you just see someone misreading that one?
That first pic is of one of Hemingway’s trunks and was taken (the pic, not the trunk) by me at the Hemingway Collection in Boston, MA. It’s not “the” trunk, the lost one with all the manuscripts in, though. I checked.