A Village Ball

When was the last time you've been to a village dance? So many movies of the 50s showed them as part of the local scene -- Carousel comes to mind. But have there been any since the uproar of the 60s? Did they continue in their sleepy, gentle way amidst the turmoil and upset of the Vietnam War peace demonstrations? Did any survive the arrival of disco? Motown and punk rock?

If not in my world of Westchester County in New York, perhaps elsewhere? As I remember it, both my parents knew how to dance: my mother was in the folk dance club at her university, and my father as a good Southern gentleman who'd been to many a debutant's ball could be counted on to do a competent turn at a waltz and even a light fox trot.

But when my parents went out for an evening it was not to dance. Elegantly decked out, with cologne tapped around his throat, perfume spritzed behind her ears, a jacket and tie for him, hair up and occasionally the elegant long skirt for her, they went out to restaurants, concerts, theatre and to gatherings of friends where food, conversation and alcohol were the main events. I never heard tell of a night of dancing.

In our family, there was a tradition of dancing at weddings. However, this was a tradition dominated far more by square dances that encouraged all ages to participate, than elegant waltzes. Yet I have memories of at least one when I, perhaps 5 at the time, took over the dance floor in my favorite pink dress. At some point a parent was inspired to push a little boy of a like age in my direction. At which point, I fled. Though my love of dance was already a confirmed trait, femme fatale, I was not.

And so, here I am dating a man from a village. A man whose roots go back a number of generations, and who is more than a bit enamoured by his village's traditions. I've spoken elsewhere of the club taurine, and the summer bull games, paëllas and carnival fairs (post Fête Votive). Yesterday evening the yearly Bal des Commerçants was on the program. We, a couple who love to dance, couldn't miss this now, could we? Particularly as JP has aspirations to be a local politician. Thus, turned out and rarin' to slide across the dance floor we were there: to see and be seen. A mere 10E a person at the door (all for a good cause) led us into the salle de fêtes decked out with lights, tables surrounding the piste (dance floor), a band specializing in 70's classics with a twist and a selection of locals.

We found a spot to sit and put our coats, got our drinks in plastic cups, and contemplated the scene. Oh yes, we did first do a round of bises to all known folk, of which there were quite a lot. Three kisses for each of his fellow political aspirants in the Socialist circle, three kisses each to the many friends and colleagues he's worked with through the cultural and social centers in town, and the occasional handshake to simple acquaintances known from the market or the local shops.

The watchmaker was tending bar between dances (he was quite fluid and fun to watch). The local documentarian was photographing the event for posterity, when not inviting a friend to waltz. And when the piste was clear of tall dancers, those a meter and shorter happily took over the space, with the occasional parent coming in to keep order.

Somehow we danced the cha cha to The Doors' Come on Baby Light My Fire, followed by a Passa Dobles in simple step rhythm, and a Rock to Serge Gainsberg. Edith Piaf was best danced as a waltz. A European tango was played and I tried to adapt to the slow slow fast fast fast, slow slow fast fast fast rhythm, but was often tripped up by the simple idea that this was supposed to be a tango. To me, it wasn't.

When not dancing I watched. I observed the couples of a certaine age who've clearly been dancing together for at least thirty years. A large tummy and stiff joints were not going to deter them now. Then there were the husbands who love to dance, dancing with the wives who love to dance, none of them with their respective spouses who didn't love to dance on hand. Happily, these re-paired couples seemed delighted with this arrangement.

JP would point out one or another man who'd confided to him his private dancing passion, and consequent frustration that his spouse was not of like mind. They'd thus taken classes on their own and here in this public spot, were lightly and gracefully partnering their neighbors across the floor. What a contrary world. As many a woman can attest, it is far more often be the other way around! Somedays I think I could as easily give up dancing with my partner, as settle for a smoker. Deal-breakers both.

One couple in particular caught my eye. He had a grand mane of fluffed gray, nearly all white hair, an elegant striped black suit, and freshly shined black shoes. She was coiffed rather severely in a variation of a Dorothy Hamill, in a simple but elegant outfit, her face drained of all color with not a spot of make-up to brighten it, and rather clunky black shoes. He, heavy set though he was, moved with grace and joy, swinging her around in a rock, a passa dobles, and a waltz with ease. But clearly, they'd never danced the cha cha together before. He tried teaching her, but suddenly, where heretofore she'd been quite graceful, she became stiff and uncertain. They were a newly formed couple; he the adept and passionate dancer, she his new muse. They made being 60 look like quite a lot of fun.

Yes, the mean age at the ball was definitely 55 and upwards. And yet, when that disco medly came on: Freak Out, Staying Alive and all your favorites, there they were boogieing away. I must say, I was impressed and enchanted. No, I've never seen people of my parents' generation, much less those of my elder cousins dance the night away at a ball. I've had my share of nights in Manhattan clubs and raves in Seattle, square dancing at weddings, but a small village ball open to the public? No, this was a first.

I do hope this tradition doesn't die out here as well. Though I'm afraid, it is highly likely. Other than the little tots on the dance floor, I was nearly the youngest person there.

La Fête Votive de Vauvert -- Bulls, horses, carnival and more

When I moved to Arles, I became aware of a local tradition called the Feria. It was centered on the Spanish style bull-fights held in the ancient Roman Amphitheatre just up the street from us. However, it seemed most particularly to include plenty of sangria, paëlla, bull games in the streets and partying in general. It was different, you might say, from my childhood in the tree-lined streets of Westchester, NY. As Erick and I lived in the area of town most affected, I came to see it as amusing for the kids, but more than anything noisy, invasive, and akin to Frat House Row during pledge nights. A bit much? well, I have a thing for men pissing on my front door, vomiting on the sidewalk, picking fights and calling in the cops at 1 in the morning...

But, there is another take on local festivals. When you leave the big city of Arles (comparitively) and head into the smaller villages of the countryside, these traditional festivals take on a very different note. There is individuality amongst the blur of repetition. And more than anything, there is pride in traditions that go far back in time.

Being at the edge of the Camargue, the large expanse of marshlands nestled in the arms of the Rhône and the Petit Rhône rivers, the importance of the local manades (ranches), gardians (cowboys), chevaux blancs et taureaux (indigenous white horses and bulls), is intensely felt and shared.



This past week has featured the Vauvert Fête Votive, the week before it was the turn of the little village of Le Cailar (where my potter lives). The carni-folk set up shop right beside the town's new red, cement arena (aka le chaudron). Sand was deposited on numerous angled corners of the local one-way streets (to limit slipping as the metal-shod horses come careening by), metal barriers were put up to limit traffic and guide incoming horses and bulls. Outdoor bars and food stands serving Pastis, basic wines, sodas, fried foods, pizza and sandwiches got to work. Tables were set out with many a chair and bench. A bandstand was put in place to receive a rotation of different local rock bands -- including one fully white reggae band with a seriously tastless man in a wig of dreadlocks held on his no-doubt bald head by a snug, crocheted, red, green and gold tam.



Kids and parents roam the streets from sun up to sun down and far into the night. The focus of the day and week, or rather that which fixes its major rhythms is the arrival of the bulls herded by the snugly formed gardians atop their sturdy, white horses in from the outlying fields. This dramatic arrival is followed by bulls running through the streets, and numerous bull games in the arena: toro piscine (think water, crazy young men who've drunk too much and taken a dare dashing amidst smart and quick and powerful bulls); the courses Camarguaises -- men in white with red cummerbunds, accepting money for running around, leaping into the stands, and nearly being stabbed in the behind by smart and quick-footed, sharp-horned bulls.

Everyone is there, or at least everyone with local roots. Some outsiders or recent arrivals might find it a bit much, but, all the rest are out and about, enjoying a drink at a local bodéga (a temporarily transformed wine cellar with a splendid interior courtyard), taking in a concert or two, dancing le rock, watching their kids spin on rides or karoom about in bumper cars, autos-tamponeuses (useful new vocabulary word, don't you agree?), nibbling on sweet and salty fried foods, quaffing local wines from the Cave Cooperative and in general enjoying a week of festivities during one of the hottest times of the year (it reached 100F/40C more than once this week!).

With JP and his younger Brother Stephane and his family we went out multiple evenings for a drink, to socialize, to watch a sexy salsa dancer/singer and to enjoy the pleasure of Stephane's daughters as they took in the rides and general neon scene.
However, the highlight of the week for me was this morning's bike ride out to the fields to accompany the gardians, horses, and bulls into town.

JP woke me early (7:45 ... horror of horrors). I kneaded my bread and enjoyed a cup of chai, then we headed down to town where our bikes were waiting for us at his cellar. Once the tires were freshly pumped up, we headed out to the fields, about 8-10 kilometers from the village. Down small winding country roads, over a bridge, in the moist and fresh mist of the morning, past the Rivière le Vistre (one of the reasons the tiny village of Le Cailar is regularly flooded) and out to the fields of a local manade.


Once there, we parked our bikes and joined in a saucisse and fougasse laden breakfast alongside the Club Taurin to which JP belongs (in an attempt for this otherwise rather solitary man to connect with some of his neighbors and what he calls, le Vauvert profond). There were teens asleep on the ground, their faces rubbed gray with ashes (a local ritual), their eye-lids terribly heavy after a night of partying in town till 3AM, followed by after parties in the fields around camp fires, music, and ... The field was filled with many a Vauverdois there to enjoy a boisterous and communal moment, wine in hand, the fanfare (roaming brass band) lending musical accompaniment.




While we nibbled on bread, the above-mentioned anchovy and crackling lacedfougasses, , greasy saucisses, pâté and wine, the gardians were picking a few vachettes (female taureaux) from the herd and readying themselves for the ride to town. Other gardians, bicyclists, runners, and horse-n-buggy drivers gathered their forces, awaiting the signal to depart.





And then, it was time. We hopped on the bikes and rode quickly across the large field to be there just as the caravan of horses and bulls trotted past us. We were anything but alone. The most dangerous part of the trip was the large numbers of bicyclists and runners (who often tired and simply slowed or stopped right in front of us). One bull did escape from his guard, and a couple gardians dashed forward to get him back under control. Imagine a dozen horses, nose to tail, surrounding 5 small bulls, these last looking at all times for an opening to escape. It's pretty strange and marvelous.



The ride took about 45 minutes, past the river, over the bridge, under the trees, and at last past the recently built villas on the outskirts of town. Once at the town limits, the gendarmes held back traffic and we followed the circuitous route to the arena. Tadaaa... Time to watch young men dash about a sandy arena hoping to touch a bull's horn without getting stabbed, then out for a drink, and up to the Mas for a well-deserved lunch and a long nap.

The Hat Lady

In a small town to the South called Vauvert, situated on the National between St. Gilles and Aigues Mortes, lives a lady who makes the most glorious hats. She simply has a gift. Married at barely twenty to a vintner, mother of three energetic boys, she somehow found time for her art. In the beginning she painted on canvas. She later painted on materials of all sorts, made fantastical dresses (which she modeled with aplomb with her fabulous figure), and set out to discover other possibilities. After all, how do you set yourself apart as a woman with something of her own to offer the world when you live in a small town, you were raised knowing the hardships of the war, and you spend a good part of your time nourishing four males?



Hats. She started making hats. And they came. Her hats have been worn to the horse races in England, to the fashion shows in Paris, and to more weddings than I could begin to list. She has worked her way through agricultural materials -- what you might use to ward off the rabbits from a young sapling, or mosquito netting, or twine--; to vegetal materials, dried leaves and papers, feathers and flowers; and of course all those classic and less so materials such as silk, linen, wool, fleece, straw and string.



She's in books, she's done Paris, she's collaborated with colleagues to design store windows. She's a wonder, and a creative genius, and amazingly generous to boot.



Pinch yourself, you're not in the cave of Ali Baba, but the den of Yvonne Cabanis, a treasure trove of textures and possibilities. She's a local legend in her own time!.



Upon two ancient wooden head forms, creations are made. She sits there, almost daily, letting her imagination run wild. Boxes surround her of her creations, and of possible future bits and pieces. Many young women, their friends and their mothers, come to try on all that is possible, and perhaps have a personally designed hat made to wear with that once in a lifetime dress.



Yvonne particularly enjoys getting to know the person who will wear the hat, and designing especially for her and her outfit. Hours of chatting and mini-psychology sessions pass as the women share tidbits and sentiments, and Yvonne tweaks this, and irons that, and sews or pins this.. and voila, yet another chef d'oeuvre is produced in this seemingly chaotic, but ever so rich space behind the glass windows, just a hop away from her son's wine cellar.


Who would think such diverse activities could co-exist in this small town courtyard?

Camarguais Horses on the Plateau

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel


When JP was a child the land surrounding his family's property was filled with vineyards. These are being progressively ripped out. Wine is a fickle source of income. For someone like JP who converted to organic 25 years' ago, the market is present and growing. But for those who simply brought their grapes to the local cooperative, to be added to their neighbors' to make simple vin de pays, the market has plummeted. The French are just not drinking like they used to, and the export market is highly competitive.

The government pays a "prime" to those willing to remove a portion of their vineyards, and so many are taking advantage of this, particularly those whose lands are not particularly apt for making quality wine. These lands are not as yet "constructible" or buildable. Those who would preserve the green spaces battle with those who would like to earn a pretty penny selling their land for development. So, in many cases they lie fallow.

Vauvert is the village furthest to the south in the AOC Costières de Nîmes, and it touches the northernmost tip of the Petite Camargue. The vintners are a strong presence, but so also are the manadiers, or ranchers who raise the white horses and the local bulls.

Out on the plateau between the Mas and town, for the time being, horses, bulls and olive orchards have replaced the vines.