Although we did rent a car for four of our fourteen days to visit some of the less accessible sites around Apt in the eastern Luberon region, all of the other cities and historic sites we visited were readily accessible by bus and/or train. And compared to the 300FF ($50) a day that the little car cost us, public transportation was a bargain. Maryl and I are not fond of planning each day to the minute, nor of leaping out of bed at the sound of an alarm, then rushing to the station to catch the only scheduled bus of the day. So we were happy to find the bus and train schedules very accommodating. Invariably in the cities we visited (and, presumably, in many others) the bus station (the Gare Routière) would be adjacent to the train station (the Gare SNCF), close to the historic center of town, where we prefer to stay. Knowing that with a few exceptions, buses or trains to and from our destinations were frequent, we were usually able to walk to a station without plans, buy a ticket for the next departure, and wait a short time. For instance, between Avignon and Orange, an ancient Roman site, there are 20 buses a day, and the 40-minute trip cost us 28FF each, less than five dollars. Between Avignon and Nîmes, our second major destination, there are five buses a day, but we connected with one of 15 daily trains, and the swift 30-minute ride cost only 45FF, about $7.50. Between Nîmes and Arles there are six trains and six buses a day. In this case a bus departure happened to be more convenient. To our good fortune we caught an express bus—which took the high-speed Autoroute, rather than winding through small towns on a minor highway—and arrived in half an hour, the same time it would have taken by train. For our first journey, though—from Marseille to Avignon—we were not disappointed to catch one of seven daily local buses, rather than the speedier train, and to spend 2½ hours of the early afternoon in a front-row seat sightseeing our way through five towns along the way, including the famous Aix-en-Provence and the scenic St. Cannat and Pélissane.

Although a bit cool, it was sunny when we arrived in Avignon. We dragged our luggage through the Porte St. Michel and, halfway to our hotel, happened upon the Place des Corps Saints. Its allusion to the bloody bodies of the martyred saints notwithstanding, this was just the kind of familiar place that, anywhere in Europe, would demand that we stop for an afternoon coffee. It forms an irregular trapezoid, bounded by narrow streets that meet at odd angles, decorated with large plane trees that were just beginning to show their spring foliage. And clusters of tables and chairs, segregated by contrasting colors that indicated their alliance with one of three or four cafés on the neighboring streets. We settled our baggage at a sunny table, and within a minute a waiter appeared from across the way to take our order for deux cafés au lait. (Later café exprès would become our afternoon staple.)

Streets in the old part of Avignon, a thoroughly medieval town, were laid out within the confines of an encircling wall, a 14th century fortification, which remains intact today (without the original moat). The wall forms a rhombus with rounded corners, like a square tweaked by the elbow bend of the Rhône River, which defends two sides. And, as if molded by the constricting force of the walls, the narrow streets in Avignon follow curving paths, concentric with the curvature of the wall (with the exception of a few wider boulevards which, as in Paris, have doubtless been bored through in more recent centuries). They change names every two or three blocks to add to the challenge of navigating the labyrinth. After our café, we followed the curving Rue Henri Fabré directly into the curving Rue Joseph Vernet, which led to the Hôtel Innova, where we had reservations. We were greeted in French by a hospitable man, presumably the M. Julot with whom I had made my reservations by phone. And we were escorted up a flight of stairs to our compact room by Virgil, a massive gray cat whose bulk was enhanced by the longest fur I've seen on any domestic animal. After a frienly interchange with the cat, we took our bearings on a map and set out to explore a few of the historic highlights.

I would guess that few people, except for medieval history buffs and perhaps graduates of catholic schools, know that Avignon was the vatican for three quarters of the 14th century. It began, according to the Rough Guide, in 1309, when the French-born Pope Clement V took temporary refuge there from “anarchic feuding” in Rome. Three terms later (after Jean XXII and Benoît XII), Clement VI, apparently realizing that this was becoming a permanent site, began work on a massive and luxurious palace, which was enlarged and fortified by his two successors. It was decorated with the finest tapestries, and a Renaissance master, Matteo Giovanetti, was commissioned for frescoes to adorn a chapel and a bedroom. Even after Gregory XI moved the “Holy See” back to Rome in 1377, French cardinals elected an “antipope,” Clement VII to continue in Avignon. During the ensuing years of the “Great Schism,” a paranoid Benoît XIII built the city walls and tore down all the houses in the vicinity of the palace, leaving a broad space that remains an open Place du Palais to this day.

It was during the early years of the split that the Italian poet Petrarch spent his youth and early adulthood in Avignon. According to Fodor's, he called the city a living hell, “the sewers of the earth.” But it was here in 1327, supposedly outside the Chapelle Ste.-Claire, that Petrarch first laid eyes on Laure de Noves. Sadly for him she was already married, but this woman known to us as Laura so dominated his thoughts that she continued to inspire the poems of this man who perfected the sonnet form, long after he left Avignon and even after her death.

After skimming a bit of the papal history, it seemed natural that Maryl and I should head first to see the great monument. The Palais des Papes is a massive, monolithic structure, towering at least four stories above our heads, with crenelations atop the walls and several gargoyle downspouts. The broad space before it is still free of offending forces, with the exception of a small motorized train that carries tourists less inclined to walking past the major sights. Well, one other exception. As we strolled slowly past the palais, craning our necks at the few architectural adornments, our ears were assaulted by the tuneless voice of a chunky, thirty-something man wearing a yarmulke and performing show tunes in English (with an accent). He paused between tunes only to request monetary rewards for his offenses. We suffered through “My Favorite Things” and “If I Were a Rich Man” before hurrying up a broad ramp toward an elevated park known as the Rocher des Doms. Mercifully, we quickly reached the Cathédrale Notre-Dame des Doms, where another performer was stationed, this one a talented flutist playing classical pieces with enough force to overpower the now distant singer. I felt obliged to tip this one 10FF for delivering me back into the realm of sacred music. We moved on to explore the park, which offered us a panoramic view of the Rhône and the relatively undeveloped land beyond to the north, all the way to snow-capped Mont Ventoux in the distance.

Before heading back to the hotel we looked into the Hôtel de Ville, a 19th century public building common to all French cities which, in Avignon's case, still houses some city offices. The ground floor had a high ceiling supported by stately marble columns, and the floor was tiled with large black and white squares. Two French poodles sat impassively on the checkerboard. I waited briefly to see what the next move might be, but I was not sure if I could understand the rules.