The Weak in Provence

The weak in Provence

Mom has been begging Dad to rent a car and go to the country.

Mom: “Come ON! I found this fab place in Provence, just outside of Arles, where they’ve converted an old manor house into a hotel. The dogs can go and the restaurant has a couple of Michelin stars. It’s in an old medieval village!”

Dad: “Now what? A vacation from a vacation? So I can feel doubly useless? I haven’t written anything…I haven’t worked out…I haven’t done a thing I wanted to do since I got here.”

Mom: “What did you want to do and who is stopping you? Isn’t it enough to be learning another language, another culture, to ride your bike, to swim in the Med, to just simply enjoy your life? Why can’t you enjoy anything?”

Mom talked about going away until Dad gave up resisting and we went to rent a cheap car. We drove past hundreds of mountains and farms and lots of giant rocks that I couldn’t pee on because we were driving by without stopping. It would have been a better trip if I could have stopped a lot more, like on my walks. You know, just to let the Provence dogs know I was there and to watch out.

We drove into Arles, where they had a giant Roman Coliseum but Mom refused to spend the night there.

Mom: “There is NO WAY I’m staying in this town, as beautiful as it is. They have bull fights here and they’re expecting 50,000 bull fight fans this weekend. Not only do I not want to see a bull fight but I don’t even want to be around jerks who watch that kind of stuff. It’s barbaric.”

So then Dad took pictures of us in front of Van Gogh’s room. Van Gogh was some dude who painted some fat ladies and postal workers around here and got really famous but not before he went nuts and cut off his ear. I've seen that Van Gogh dude's paintings. They just look like he swirled some mustard around with a stick. The only one I ever saw that I liked was one that was painted right here, in a corn field with some black birds taking off. I couldn't even chase the birds. Crappy.

Dad wants to open a buffet style restaurant here called "Arles You Can Eat." He loves those stupid word games.

Dad: “Hey Honey, what if I went to Aix-en-Provence and opened up a breakfast joint? What would I call it?”

Mom: “I don’t give a Crèpe.”

Dad: “No, I’d call it "Eggs on Provence"…hee hee hee! If I had a moving service in this town, you know what I’d call it? "Vincent’s Van Go!" If I had a Steak house in Nice, you know what I’d call it?”

Mom dragged me down the street, past a screaming kid who dropped his ice cream.

Dad: (yelling) “Entrecôte d’Azur!”

When we finally got to the Cabro D’Or, in Les Baux de Provence, we ran around like crazy and met some goats. Finley got to know the goats a little too well. She ate some goat poop. There was an "organic" vegetable garden and just to make sure it was in fact organic, I peed on the basil plants.

Of course, Mom and Dad can’t go anywhere without looking at real estate. Whatever town in we’re in, they stand for hours in the hot sun, drooling over pictures of houses in the real estate office windows. Finny’s feet were burning on the hot cobble stones so Mom and Dad went in to ask about an old farm house for sale.

Finley and I would love the country life. And we could bring Stupid Kitty out from Hollywood. I'm not sure though, because she's got some kind of liquid or gel in her brain that's not allowed on planes anymore. Besides, Mom couldn’t really live too far from fancy shoe shops and Dad can barely change a light bulb. He might hurt himself.