The meeting time for our excursion, Arles and the Olive Mills of Les Baux, was the latest we’d had yet at 8:45 AM. We had set a wakeup call for 7:30 AM to give us enough time to sleep and to have a leisurely breakfast. Lisa woke up even earlier than she needed to and was well into her shower by the time Mickey called to bother us. We still managed to miss breakfast. In fact, we were in the room at 8:43 AM, both blaming the other one for being so late (I had clothes on at the time, so I believe I had the upper hand). We’ve got an even later wakeup time for Villefranche at 9:00 AM, though I doubt we’ll learn from our mistake.

We were meeting in Diversions and were the last to check in, meaning we were on the second bus. Luckily, our DIS friends from Florence were late enough risers that they were on the second bus as well. We milled about a bit as the first bus group its way out and then followed them down to Bus 18.

Sandrine, a vibrant, fashionable French woman in a polka dot dress, would be our tour guide for the day. She waited alongside our bus with our driver, Terry, a pony-tailed and stubbly man who Lisa said was a quintessential Frenchman. I assume his name was Terry but I never saw it written anywhere. Sandrine pronounced it “Tee-yery”, so perhaps I’m anglicizing it the wrong way. They took our tickets and we boarded the bus, sitting by the back part of one of the large windows so we could take pictures.

The buses have become progressively less comfortable as we’ve continued on our journey. I theorized in Olbia that the buses that start in Rome get shipped off to Palermo, then Naples, then 10 other places, then finally Sardinia. I would’ve given my right leg to be in the luxurious Olbian bus during the hour ride to Arles, mainly because my right leg was being stabbed constantly by the raised reclining lever. I can only assume it was sticking out (of every seat, not just mine) to allow easier access, since on most buses finding the recliner is akin to deciphering Sanskrit. The problem was that it was sticking out just enough so that your leg would still spill over it instead of pressing against the side of it, as if just the right side of your body was undergoing torture. The leg room on the bus was false advertising as it implied any room at all. The lack of space would only worsen as we collected bag upon bag of souvenirs. More on that later. For now we were just traveling uncomfortable to Arles.

There were a lot more children on this tour than any of our previous excursions. At the very least, there were a lot more noticeable children. Sandrine started her spiel as soon as we left the port (for the second time, the first time a couple with a baby showed up as we were pulling away from the boat. They were wayyyy late, but they were given a free pass since their kid was adorable and didn’t make a fuss the entire trip) but half the bus remained chattering in defiance of her. We were only three rows from her and we could barely hear her over all the noise. Thankfully, some non-terminally polite people shushed the offending groups and we could learn a few things about Marseilles that we would promptly forget.

Our ride took us past a lake that could be (and was by me) confused for the Mediterranean since the cities crowded its shores as if it were a port. The lake was originally the domain of Fishermen and salt farms but the World Wars converted it into an important industrial center. Although there were few remaining, there were still salt farms and we saw a few on our way. We also saw the Little Venice of Marseilles, a town built on an island at the edge of the lake. The island is criss-crossed with canals filled with gondolas, making for a charming little town that would definitely merit a visit on a return trip. All of the French countryside was charming, though, with hillside villages off in the distance and the farms just off the side of the highway. We passed countless olive fields (orchards?) On our way, in neat rows and separated on either side by tall trees that went back so far they seemed to converge in the distance. The effect of all of it was Marseilles and the surrounding area had the second most beautiful countryside we’d seen in Europe after Sicily.

We arrived in the main street of Arles (pronounced without the “es”) and parked alongside the Office du Tourisme which had a charming little carousel beside it that said it was from 1900 but looked as if it was built yesterday. It was here we would converge after the free time following our tour or, if you chose to explore Arles on your own, after about two hours. Sandrine was very accommodating to anyone who wanted to explore places on their own wherever we went, most likely because we were visiting only sleepy little places today, far removed from the insane hustle and bustle of the big cities. I don’t know if this courtesy extended to other tour guides on the same tour, but if the idea of Arles and Les Baux appeal to you but you’re more a do-it-yourself kind of person, take advantage of this excursion to get you there and give you a really nice lunch in between. More on that later.

Arles, located alongside the Rhone river, was an important stop for traveling Romans. It had the first bridge crossing the Rhone and so became an important port for trade, only declining in importance well into the 16th century, so that most of the marvels built throughout the ages are still intact, with Roman and Medieval structures standing right alongside one another. Our first stop, down a narrow road off the main street, offered both.

The thing that draws your immediate attention as you enter the Place de la Republique, the Republic Square, is the large Roman obelisk perched atop a fountain in the center of the square. It was originally part of a Roman Circus here in Arles, but it was lost to the ages until flooding dredged it up alongside the Rhone. It was placed here atop a fountain decorated with lions, the symbol of the city, and the running water of the fountain combined with the echoing music of the flautist who had set up shop in the corner made for a relaxing scene that made our Sunday mornings seem pathetic in comparison. A few Arlesians had gathered around the fountain to eat their breakfast while another man ate while his dog slept beside him on the steps of St. Trophime Church. Named for a bishop who brought Catholicism to Arles, the church is most notable for its ornate entryway, known during the Middle Ages as the Poor Man’s Bible for its graphic depiction of the Final Judgement. Jesus sits in the center, flanked on both sides by animal representations of four evangelists and the twelve Apostles at his feet. He’s passing judgement on the teeming masses represented on either side of the entryway: on one side, a shuffling line of clothed men and women marked for heavenly descent, on the other side a chained line of men, naked, consumed by the fires of hell. The intricate detail on the church’s face was uncharacteristic of the time as they tended to be plain affairs with little ornamentation, as demonstrated by the concrete slab with a lone bust above its door that was the entrance to the church across the way.

We waited in the square in front of the Town Hall, called here a Hotel, which we learned did not necessarily mean what you’d think it meant and depended on the modifier for clarification as to its purpose. We were waiting for the people who had to use the restroom, as these were the only public restrooms we would see for a while. You would think that the ship had no working bathrooms since the line for it went across the square, almost to St. Trophime. We waited for an incredibly long time so that even Sandrine grew impatient with the people whose resolve to pee was greater than their desire to see the sights they had paid for.

Once the last person had rejoined the group, we made our way through the Hotel Town Hall and into Yet Another Charming Alleyway (YACA) that opened up to the Place du Forum, another square, though this time packed on all sides with open air cafes. We stopped alongside one called the Café la Nuit which had been painted 119 years earlier by Vincent Van Gogh during his time in the Provence region of France. He had spent a year in Arles and this was among the many pieces that came out of his time here. There was a replica of the painting standing alongside the café, which looked much as it did a century earlier. This was not due to fortuitous aging but a restoration done in the 1980s that restored the café to appear as it did when Van Gogh captured it. Life imitates art in this case, though, as the walls are painted a mix of green and yellow that would look shoddy if you weren’t aware they were capturing the colors of Van Gogh’s work.

Down YACA led to the Roman Amphitheater and another painting from Van Gogh’s time in Arles. The Amphitheater had experienced a revival as an entertainment venue in Van Gogh’s time after serving other purposes for several centuries. Van Gogh was not interested in the bullfights featured in the amphitheater (the upper right corner of the painting has the bullfighter and matadors depicted almost as stick figures, painted in a few light brush strokes) but was intrigued by the attending crowds, especially the women in the bottom right of the painting, which are depicted in great detail in contrast with the rest of the audience.

The amphitheater itself stands looking ancient surrounded by the charming village. Although its antiquity would lead you to believe it is unused, like the Colosseum, it’s still used today for bullfighting and posters advertising upcoming events line its walls, the matadors names listed like the billing for a concert. There were two events: the Fetes d’Arles (or Cocarde d’Or, one or the other), which was more sporting, in which the bull had something on either horn or on top of its head that needed to be snatched by the matadors in order to be victorious. The bulls remained unharmed for this, unlike the other upcoming event, the Feria du Riz. The bull would be killed at the end of this festival and its blood would be spilled to ensure a good rice harvest.

We made our way into the amphitheater, the 12th largest of the Roman amphitheaters as proudly proclaimed by a sign on the wall, and sat in the modern bleachers. Much like the Colosseum in Rome and so many other ancient structures, when its original intent was lost to the ages, it became a quarry, so that the original seating was lost. The arena’s center was filled with sand and the exoskeleton of the modern structure lay atop the ancient building, making it even clearer that the amphitheater is alive and well, enjoying constant use throughout the year. It has been restored continuously since the original restoration in the 1800s when its historical significance was recognized. During the Middle Ages, the open archways were bricked up and the amphitheater became a walled town of 200, crammed impossibly into its center.
We moved out of the amphitheater past the Theatre antique, where we peaked through the iron gates at its remains. Another victim of opportunistic builders, what remains is still in use today, housing 3,000 for performances on a stage backed by two lone Corinthian columns. The backstage area for the performers is now visible, its ceilings and some of the walls now removed. One wonders where the modern performers hide when not onstage.

YACA took us to the Place de la Republique again where we disbanded for an hour of free time. Today was our designated souvenir day, having had no time at all to shop in previous ports where we wanted things to bring home and way too much time in others where all that was offered were run-of-the-mill trinkets. After picking up a few full bags to lug around with us, we made our way into a bakery and sandwich shop where everything looked incredible. Our eyes both settled upon a sandwich that was entirely covered with melted cheese with a buttery-looking clove of garlic at its center. We took it over by the carousel near the Office du Tourism and wolfed it down. Lisa was concerned that the sandwich hid sliced tomatoes within its cheesy confines, but the hunger I had built up during these lengthy excursions saw me eating meal after meal I would turn my nose up back at home. I still stand by the notion that the things I dislike back home are just better here, something that’s been backed up by several people without me goading them to give the right response.

Lisa, who avoided the insane bathroom line in the Place de la Republique, now had to go urgently. We made our way into a McDonald’s across the street (there were representatives of American culture almost everywhere and most were embarrassing) where I briefly considered ordering a Royale with Cheese before we settled upon a small Coke that was accompanied by a receipt with a magic code that would allow Lisa to pee. When she returned it was time to board the bus again.

We left Arles, passing the Aqueducts that fed the city when it was an outpost for Rome but were now lined the roadside, divided by roundabouts. A monastery was one of the lone sights on our way to the Olive Mills of Les Baux.

The Huile d’Olive Moulin du Mas des Barres was nestled, of course, in the middle of endless olive fields, its entryway marked by two white columns with sculptures of olives on top. It was quiet, almost abandoned, and this was because we weren’t visiting during the harvest or production of the olives. I imagine that this was the main draw for the many families with young children on this tour and so our guide standing in front of silent machines explaining what they would be doing if they were working was a disappointment. The harvest doesn’t take place until December and, while it was interesting for the adults, the children seemed fairly restless with all the talking, so those expecting different take note.

The disappointment from the lack of the milling of olives at the Olive Mills was quickly abated by the promise of lunch. We made our way back out into the blinding sunlight (the dusty white ground reflected the beating sun directly into our eyes, so sunglasses were a must) and through the olive fields to a large courtyard. They immediately won all the adults over with trays full of a drink that I’m unsure how to spell (sounds like “Keer”) made from black currant and white wine. Lisa had fallen in love with this drink in its Royale form (made with champagne instead of white wine) in Epcot, so she was in heaven. They were delicious, and I drank at least three. They brought out two types of Teppenade, one made from black olives, one made from green olives, that were so delicious that everyone didn’t just go back for seconds or thirds, but eighths and ninths. There were a few holdouts, having been burned by olives back where they came from but I was totally converted. Our guide from the dormant olive mills was handing out samples of the olive oil produced here on small spoons, encouraging us to treat it like wine, keeping it in our mouth to allow the flavors to unfold.

After we all got drunk in the sun, we were escorted inside to the dining room. A slice of olive loaf (I’m not sure that’s what it was called, but it’s my best guess) sat floating in a sea of olive oil, an olive on either side. The olive loaf was soaked in what I guess had to be cream as the bread was so soft as to be gelatinous, melting in my mouth. A few people were scared away by it, but it was their loss. There was a basket overflowing with bread in the center of the table and almost immediately it was emptied, everyone using the crusty pieces to sop up the delicious olive oil. There was wine, as always, and a tasty one at that, dangerous as we had already downed too many outside and still had the town of Les Baux to explore. We decided we’d explore it in a haze and enjoyed it thoroughly. The main course was lamb (we think, we knew when we were eating it) served alongside some amazingly tasty gratin potatoes. They followed this up with some truly delicious goat cheese, another thing I’m not ordinarily fond of, and some dessert which I promptly forgot about since I followed it up with some more great goat cheese. Overall it was our best overall meal since Sorrento, and the goat cheese was so good I wonder if I enjoyed it more than the best single dish we’ve had this trip: the lasagna in Rome.

We made our way through their shop and bought them out, bringing the excess baggage fees we’ll pay on Ryanair from expensive to ridiculous. We lugged it all back onto the bus, making it so the minuscule amount of legroom we previously had was now non-existant, filled with souvenirs, so we were forced to contort into positions usually only seen in ancient relationship manuals. Our next stop was Les Baux proper, the medieval mountain town.

The region seemed to be completely surrounded by mountains at every side but in truth they were only hills whose sparse vegetation and large swaths of bare rock made them appear to be mountains in the distance as opposed to hills in the foreground. The hills were home to Les Baux, its castle built into the rocky hillside, well-fortified far above the valley. We were headed to the more “modern” lower town, though, whose sloped, winding main road was reminiscent of Segesta, though the shop-lined corridor called to Lisa’s inner consumer far more actively. We passed all these as well as some ruins laying outside the pay-only Castle area and made our way to St. Vincent’s church. Built in the 12th century, this Romanesque church was small but had its charms, including some stained glass windows donated by the Prince of Monaco. The most interesting piece in the church was the nativity cart that sat off to one side, used once a year on Christmas Eve to carry a lamb up the main road and into the church where its first bleat would signal the birth of Christ. The lamb is usually sleepy at the midnight mass, though, and its reluctance to bleat is solved by a swift yank on its tail.

Sandrine let us go at this point, knowing the shops were calling to us, but not before recommending the breathtaking view to one side of the church as well as the Chapel of the Penitents for the nativity scene painted on its walls. The view was indeed spectacular and the Chapel of the Penitents was beautiful, with the walls painted from floor to ceiling by Yves Brayer in the 1970s, depicting the local legend that Jesus was born in Les Baux.

We spent the rest of our time in Les Baux wandering in and out of shops, spending the money that had previously sat safely in our bank account. We ended up in the most dangerous place possible at the bottom of the hill, La Cure Gourmand, a bakery and candy shop filled with wall to wall delights. We bought one of every kind of cookie on display and spent so much time coveting everything that we were the last to return to the bus.

It was about an hour’s ride back to the bus and despite our awkward seating we slept through most of it. The length of the tour meant we had enough time to get freshened up for dinner, Pirate’s night at Parrot Cay.

My costume I used for the previous cruise, the frilled shirt from my tuxedo unbuttoned in a piratey manner, seemed ill-fitting and creepy, so I went with the regular khakis and a polo shirt. Lisa went with a Jack Sparrow t-shirt accented with the heavy Jack Sparrow eyeliner. Laura and Andy were non-piratey as well, despite Laura trying convince Andy to bring his Jack Sparrow Halloween costume across the Atlantic. Melroy turned out to be an expert pirate dewrag tie-er and so they both had instant pirate costumes. I like Melroy, but I was uncomfortable with having a man fuss over my head for so long, so I folded the bandana and tucked it in my pocket for a corporate pirate look.

We had our requisite two of everything and I made my token walk around deck before falling asleep. Lisa’s constantly disappointed by my after-dinner coma and could probably stay awake if I she stayed up on her own, but as soon as she followed me back to the room, where a giant alligator Laurel had cleverly made with the assistance of one of the rounded couch pillows awaited us, we fell asleep almost immediately.

Our last excursion for the cruise was the following day: Monaco and Nice in the port of Villefranche, France.