THE WALKS | THE PREAMBLE

Our absurd guidebook was printed on thin paper that dissappeared into thinner nothingness once we left the city limits. We were left wondering what odd laws ruled the creatures and objects within the walls of Avignon. Being graced with a photographic memory, one night, we transcribed what had been on those evanescent pages; then, alas, we ran out of film and had to reconstruct the rest of it, adding here and there a few ideas of our own where memory failed to serve.

There are a thousand possible Avignons -- each as valid as the next and each a world unto itself. Together, we travelled through Avignon and slept in its four stars, and ate at its three stars. Alone, together, in twos, in threes, we walked and searched out ways to carry ourselves through the town.

Sometimes you will float through Avignon, as though it were an invisible city, an imaginary one. It seems like solid mortar and stone, but if you touch anything, all you can feel is the promise of imagined delight. All you can see is the expectation of perfect harmony like a fine glaze on top of these stones. Floating with you like figures in a Chagall painting are your traveling companions: attached to you by a thinly brushed line is your dear husband, stuck in an impasto of some other hue.

When you see a wild family on vacation, beware. They might attack you like a parade of unherdable beasts, and, putting you off course from your original plan, you will end up on holiday instead. Traveling is like that: a vacation becomes a holiday; a holiday becomes time off; time off becomes an adventure. Beware of wild families.

Those of you who have never been: Avignon will never come to you, so you will have to go to Avignon. And seeing Avignon means walking Avignon. There are several contraptions for avoiding walking more than you can. Remember the floating woman of 67, my mother, whose feet hurt as often as every quarter mile the way mine might after five miles, or yours if you're younger, after 10. She is a fine case in point: sometimes, the sidewalks of Avignon had teeth; they bit at her feet. At other times, her feet devoured the sidewalks, and even some cobblestone roads. Mountains, sloping climbs, bell tower steps two at a time: mostly out, but gradually, briefly, it seemed now and then to slip both of our minds, and we'd be up on high, viewing the countryside off in the distance, as pleased as if we owned the view and had decided to give it away.

At other times, I wanted my mother to see what I saw: the places where I'd previously scrambled up slopes to see a panorama or a park, all on foot. I wanted her to see them, too. For such a thing, I was prepared to devote an entire day and any money I had at my disposal and all of my effort and love. Such a unitary focus can undo you, at home or abroad; however, and that's one of the lessons I learned. While one entire day of laboring uphill would seem ample payment for the sight, it wasn't always easy to translate this into action, to hold onto the goal, and so some of the most beautiful views of Avignon were brought home in only my suitcase of memories. My misery ached and ached as if to say: if only I'd found Leonardo da Vinci's well-hidden shop of self-propelling flying devices... This was cited at the bottom of page 16 in our odd little guidebook, which swiftly dissappeared. It was not the only thing we all were missing. When traveling, you do not need to clutch to your guidebook as though it were a cliff and you were falling. Loosen your deathgrasp on familiarity. Learn the art of letting go.

On one occasion, I found myself on the road. I was gone well before my traveling compañeros, my husband and my parents, awoke. The hotel desk clerk was sipping his tiny espresso, and the dawn was caressing the white stones of the cloistered courtyard behind him. I hurried out and immediately hid myself in the winding roads of the town's secret anatomy.

When you take yourself out of the common mode of seeing a place, it has no real sidewalks; its roads are never difficult for tired feet. Its streets are always easy to navigate, and you are at will to roam its hidden mysteries. You don't even need to stop to eat, for what use is food when you are up there with the clouds?

Out in front of the Palais des Papes, I heard myself saying to my mother:

"You've got to see the peacocks, Mom. Did you know they're descended from those kept by the Popes in the 15th Century?"

But the reality came: on that particular day, unless the peackocks could fly down to see her at the hotel, we would need to find transportation: getting from A to B in a group can be like trying to solve a word problem where there's more than one missing component, more than one x, and you can't seems to find the solution. Travelling with others can be like herding cats or convincing a porcupine to stand on its quills. Such analogies occurred to me; the bellman might even have overheard me thinking. Bellmen can be quite good at things of the sort. All that contact with people. Sometimes they can even tell what's inside a suitcase without even opening it to look inside.

While I had one suitcase, black, you might bring seven. I came with my parents and husband. You may bring your aunts and uncles, your teachers and pets, your enemies and your admirers, or others: a child, a friend, a lawyer, all your relatives, or no one. And while you are looking on your map for all the possible Avignons, first head for the one which surpasses hyperbole.

And, do not satisfy yourself merely with the simple questions: where to stay, where to eat, where to spend the day. A city as old as Avignon can certainly answer--and ask--much tougher ones.

THE WALKS
WALK ONE | WALK TWO | WALK THREE | WALK FOUR | WALK FIVE | WALK SIX | WALK SEVEN | WALK EIGHT | WALK NINE | WALK TEN