Perpignan and the Good Life

Perpignan, with street signs in French and Catalan, was a lot more interesting than I’d thought it would be. We’d seen it from the bus window for two days, and the crowded, narrow streets seemed uninviting. However, with nowhere better to go on Friday, I chose Perpignan – and Mary said OK.

Walking a city is always better than riding. However, at first, it was daunting. We needed to get to the Office du Tourisme, pick up a map of the city and talk with someone who knew the best places to go. For some reason we were both tired and grumpy, blaming the gods for putting the tourist office so far out of our way.

Actually, it was in a good location if you had gotten off the bus a few stops earlier.

Each time we reached a corner where it should be, another sign directed us farther on. Farther. Farther still, until we were ready to give up. That’s when it finally appeared across the street, part of a huge building, kind of a cultural center with a big park alongside, and an Indian movie festival inside.

We got our maps and info, checked out the Indian display, then strolled through the adjoining park, found a bench by a fountain where a lovelorn poet played a plaintive guitar while a scary animal chased a naked lady. Our lunch of goat cheese and terrine sandwiches and fruit set us up for a splendid afternoon of exploring the old town.

Perpignan is a mixture of Catalania, or southern Spain, and France. Many signs are in both languages; in fact, it’s probably more closely related to Barcelona than Paris.

We climbed up steep marble-like steps to the Place Moliere and thence to the “Routiere” or old Armory where there was a photo exhibit by Jacques Fulcara. It was cool inside; pix were good. I especially liked the texture and how he found patterns in small details. Then on to the Chapel of Tiers and an art exhibit with beautiful colors and scenes of local places and people.

Mary asked about the significance of the men in tall red Ku Klux Klan-looking outfits that had also turned up in the photo exhibit. The guide went out of her way to explain “la Shant,” but I still don’t really understand. It’s a local word for the procession that winds through town the Friday before Easter, which this day was.

The procession celebrates Jesus’ ascension. The people in the red hats are anonymous (but well-known locals) and carry the statues to various stops where more and more people join in – women, children, men. Prayers are said over loudspeakers for the people of the region asking forgiveness. On Saturday, all the fountains in town will be filled with red roses, symbols of Mary, and undoubtedly beautiful.

The procession would begin in about an hour and a half! I admit I’d been doubtful about Mary asking about the red costumes – what if they’d turned out to be a KKK-type organization ready to burn heretics or whatevers? – but if she hadn’t asked, we wouldn’t have known about the procession and all the rest.

Lucky for us that Mary’s curiosity often overruled my shyness. [Insert heavy sigh.] Because I wouldn't ask the difficult questions, she stumbled along in charming charades mixed with a few words in French and some in English. She usually got good results on her own, since people were willing to try really hard to know what she was saying. If I could tell the point wasn't getting across, I would chime in to explain. That way I couldn't be embarrassed because it was clearly Mary's question, not mine. I, of course, benefited from the answers just as much as she did.

We found a perfect spot by the cathedral and gendarmes, and watched the crowd gather. After awhile, the clouds gathered, also, and it began to rain. Heavily. Umbrellas came out, but people didn’t move, except us since we’d left our rain gear at the timeshare. We backed up against a building with a slight overhang and waited.

Look at the picture of the two ladies walking toward us. Aren’t they wonderful in their colorful, oddly mixed clothes? Independent and marvelous sense of fashion! And the colorful umbrellas! No wonder so many artists love the south of France!

Because we weren’t prepared for rain, we got cold waiting for the procession to move. The red hats stood outside the cathedral entrance and nothing else happened, so after awhile we went to find shelter in a nearby restaurant. Warm and dry inside, Mary ordered hot chocolate and I got hot milk. All of a sudden, everyone in there moved to the big window to the north, so we did, too. It was the procession coming right by the restaurant!

In the rain, the statues covered in plastic for protection, the people wound their way through the streets, prayers being spoken through a public address system. It was quite lovely, especially seeing the children following along in their best clothes. Sorry I don’t have a picture of them.

After that, we caught the bus back to Ile des Pecheurs and packed up for travel to Nimes the next day.

It rained all night. By morning, the rain had stopped but we were flooded in. I waded barefoot to the little store across the way, bought some waterproof sandals, and asked at the office if we could be “airlifted” out when checkout came. They agreed, I waded back, and at the appointed time, a man with a golf card and a long board (read “gangplank”) showed up.

This week on the Mediterranean turned out to be far nicer than we had expected. On the map, it looked as if nothing much was there. Thank goodness it was April, because in summer I hear it’s wall-to-wall people. Well, sure, why not? Good climate, incredible scenery, great food, interesting history, nice people. What more is there to the good life?