The Holy Pope and His Wine

Sur le Pont d'Avignon

Sur le pont d'Avignon

L'on y danse, l'on y danse

Sur le pont d'Avignon

L'on y danse, tous en ronde

Le "Pont d'Avignon" isn't actually called le Pont d'Avignon. It's something like The Herder's Bridge. And it's not functional anymore. And no one ever danced on it. It's still pretty pretty.

What little of Avignon I saw I was confused by. It was pretty but not in the jaw dropping whimsical way. It seemed to be a very serious city with a strange mix of modern and ancient.

On Saturday I went to Avignon with the ISEP Americans, high school style (a recurring theme as of recent). We boarded a bus, got shuffled around and had a guided tour of the Palais des Papes. The Palais des Papes was an alternative "Palace of the Popes" way back in the Middle Ages when the Pope was relevant.

Long story short: the gift shop had shot glasses with the wallpaper pattern of the Pope's bedroom so I slipped one in my purse and walked away. Someone had to toy around with the useless merchandise of the Catholic Gift Shop.

We boarded the bus once more for a laborious drive to Nîmes and a vineyard. There we pensively extracted the nuances of  fine wines and the Earth in which they were birthed with our refined palates.

A white, rosé and two reds later we were allowed to frolic in the vineyards charming 'backyard'. Probably the best part of the whole trip was running free and singing Sound of Music like those hooligan van Tramps.

The weekend was polished off by a night of dancing and a fatty improvised breakfast burrito and walk accompanied by friends and peacocks on a lazy Sunday morning. Sometimes my life feels like an unreal fairytale.