Thursday January 22, 1998: I woke up very early on Thursday. 3:57 am, to be exact. I heard the wind blowing rather violently outside my window, and rain, too. And then I woke up a little more and realized that the rain sound was not coming from the window side of the room, but from the bathroom side. Thinking that was a bit odd, I got up to investigate and landed in about half an inch of water. That's… curious. Meanwhile, there was water pouring out of my bathroom ceiling and pipes. I put on my sweater and waded downstairs to make sure that someone else had noticed this minor problem, running through doorways with water cascading down in front of them on the way. Even at four in the morning, I found the whole situation rather amusing.

Not wanting to remain marooned on my bed any longer than necessary, I packed up and left for the day at 6:30. This would turn out to be the best day of my trip.

My damp sweater and I stumbled off the bus in Arles at 8 am, just moments after sunrise. It was very, very cold. Very cold. The Mediterranean coast is a superb place to be in the middle of January, but 10 miles inland one is confronted with the Mistral, Provence's infamous bone-chilling winter wind. I had read about the Mistral, and been warned by my host family… but sure enough… it was cold. I also was not walking very gracefully by this time, thanks to Tuesday's corniche-climbing adventure. My calf muscles were so sore that if I stood still for 30 seconds, they would tighten up and I'd have to hobble around like a particularly clutzy pigeon for half an hour until they stretched out again. I tottered around awkwardly for a while looking for a public building that was open so I could go inside and thaw myself. Most everything was closed, but I finally found a café that was open, and allowed my calf muscles to convince me that it would be worth it to splurge and pay for a cup of coffee so I could go inside. I took refuge inside for a little while, huddling with my thimbleful of coffee and waiting for the sun to finish rising before venturing back out into the tundra.

I got my motor started again at last and spent a couple of hours walking around Arles. Very nice place (though cold, still very cold): I visited an ancient arena (cold), an ancient theater (also cold), and various churches (not quite as cold) before I finally gave up and went to the bus station in hopes of transporting myself to a town with weather more suited for human survival.

I waited at the bus station for a little while for my bus to come and take me to Les Baux de Provence, a cliff-perched village not too far away. Unfortunately, I failed to read in the fine print of the schedule that the bus only stops in Les Baux between April and October (argh), but the bus driver suggested that I take the bus as far as Maussane and walk from there. A 'super balade' of about half an hour, he said. I was a little hesitant to let this man dump me in the middle of the countryside, but since nothing sounded worse than freezing to death there at the Arles bus depot, I got on the bus.

That bus driver knew what he was talking about. The walk from Maussane up to Les Baux was stunning. The Mistral had somehow vanished and the sun was shining. I walked up an empty highway past olive orchards and farmhouses, with breathtakingly beautiful cliffs spread out in front of me for the second half of the walk. Les Baux itself was my favorite place of the whole trip. There are the ruins of a huge castle at the very top of the cliff, with an amazing view of the valley from up there. Since it was a weekday in the middle of winter, I had the whole place to myself, and I ran around gleefully exploring and playing and climbing. Afterwards, I walked up the road a ways and found a canyon full of white stone with all sorts of interesting arches and holes weathered into it. My guide book said that it had been the setting for many stories about gnomes and fairies. I would be thrilled to live in that canyon if I were a gnome.