Avignon, Wednesday, March 24, 8 a.m. — We’ve fallen a bit behind in our blogging, but it’s hard to blog when you’re going 300 kilometer per hour. We had a minor strike scare on Monday afternoon, when we realized that a major French rail strike was set to take place Tuesday, the very day we were hoping to take the TGV high-speed rail to Provence in the south of France. Thanks to Chrystele, a French radio journalist, we were able to find out that our train wasn’t going to be affected, but 1/3 of the other TGV were cancelled. We suspect Chrystele, a union boss herself, was behind an attempt to keep us in Paris, but she had her heavies relent at the last minute and free our train.

In the evening, we trudged to the Eiffel Tower. We tried to take the metro but someone had thrown themselves on the tracks, so we took two cabs to the heart of touristy Paris. Will begged to go up in the Tower, but the wait was far too long for the elevator to the top, so we bought tickets to take the stairs to the first level — that broad part you see partway up. We fought off some impudent Italian high school students and made our way up for the sunset and a great view of the city. As we left up the Trocadero, across the Seine with a view down on the tower and the Champs de Mars, the tower lit up. As a bride and groom had their wedding photos shot against that backdrop, we descended to the metro, where Rick deftly averted a pickpocketing with one of his steely glares. (The guy saw Rick’s backpack and darted off after him; I noticed, so did Rick, and the guy veered away. Phew.)

We had a lovely last dinner with the Papes in Paris at a charming, friendly restaurant near the Louvre and the Palais Royal. Luka and Will held out despite the late hour. We walked the Papes back to their bus through a lively neighborhood filled with busy cafes and restaurants. It was really sad saying goodbye to them; we hope to see them again soon and before Luka gets too much bigger. As you can see from the photos, he’s totally adorable.

We got off to a rough start Tuesday. We arrived at the Gare de Lyon more than an hour early, just in case there was strike-related travel chaos, but there wasn’t. Until we boarded the train. I found what I thought to be our seats, but there were people in three of the five seats. One man produced a ticket showing he, too, was in seat 21. The two women glared at me disinterestedy. Since Rick, Will, Mitchell and Alex stood behind me, lugging their suitcases and blocking the aisle, I retreated to try to find someone to help us find our real seats. Upstairs, downstairs, all around, I finally told everyone to sit down in an open seat and wait until I could figure it out. I found a very harried conductor, who told me, yes, my seats were down were I had originally been. By then the man occupying seat 21 found me and apologized, explaining he was mistaken (I think he was saving face for being such an ass) and the women were very, very angry as I showed them my tickets. They moved to other seats nearby. Whatever. I think they had figured I would give up and go away.

The train ride was otherwise uneventful. Just 2 1/2 hours all the way to the south of France, what would have been a 6 1/2 hour drive. And on the one leg of our journey I had not pre-planned to the nth degree — the ride from the train station to the hotel in Avignon — we of course were left standing at an empty taxi queue at the station with no taxis in sight — and some helpful person had scratched out part of the phone number to call a cab. The weather was beautiful, but we were all bundled up for cold, so we were HOT. A taxi swung around the corner in the glaring sun and Will leapt to his feet and shouted, “SOS!!” Well, needless to say we weren’t in danger of anything, and I managed to call a cab big enough to get us to our lovely old hotel just inside the medieval city walls of this city, home of the popes and the center of Christendom during the 14th century.

We dropped our luggage and headed out to catch the Palais des Papes, the 14th century fortress that rises above the winding streets of the city. It is a labyrinth of corridors and rooms used by the rogue popes who had moved here from Rome early in the 1300s. The first pope was austere, but the ones who followed were more like party-guys who built sumptuous chambers and beautifully arched feasting and meeting halls. (Don’t tell anyone, but Will and I think it doesn’t hold a candle to the castles in Scotland.)

We then climbed to the park behind the castle, where an unusual rock formation was the fortress of the original inhabitants of the area. Below, was the Pont St. Benezet, better known as the Pont d’Avignon of nursery-rhyme fame. It was built 200 or years before the palace and has withstood the ferocity of the Rhone river for centuries. It’s broken off half way, but it still made a magical spot to look back on the palace and the walls of Avignon in the fading sunlight.

We had a great dinner at La Fourchette, a cozy and extremely friendly restaurant near our hotel. We had an excellent Provencale meal; Mitchell ordered the escargot but declared they tasted like dirt. Will and Rick pitched in to eat a few. I had perfect salmon and a raw artichoke and parmesan salad (must try this at home); Rick and Will loved their Daube de Boeuf Provencale and mashed potatoes. Then home to bed.