On the Bridge at Avignon
Pont Saint-Benezet at Avignon in Provence, France. Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner. 1700s.
Do you think it’s possible to connect to a place you’ve only been exposed to in words?
I’ve just returned from Provence for the wedding of dear friends where my senses were stirred in a way that I imagine that madeleine cookie did for Marcel Proust.
I’ve never been to Provence, only exposed to it through language and song, painting and artifact lodged in memory through art.
What surfaced for me was the kind of knowing one has from long-held moments. Being there felt not only familiar but familial, reuniting me with my not-at-all French parents, now long passed.
It wasn’t until I got back home that I put it all together.
Family lore has it that my father wooed my mother, an English major, with dreams of writing poetry in a garret in Paris.He had fallen in love with France on a student trip and had become a Francophile. When my parents set up house, much of the art they selected together featured prints of Central European landscapes and artists like Picasso who spent time in France. Even the furniture was French provincial. Learning to speak French was important enough to them to send me to an overnight camp to learn the language.
If all of this wasn’t enough, my mother sang “Sur La Pont D’avignon (On the Bridge of Avignon)” as a lullaby to me as a child. And I still know all of words.
As I made my way around Avignon, these fragments popped up which brought a few sweet tears as well as a determination to get to that bridge.
As bridges go, it’s lovely one even with only four arches left due to flooding and time. I stood by one of the columns and sang a verse of the song I’ve known so long.
Sur la pont d’avignon (on the bridge at Avignon)
L’on y danse, l’on y danse (they are dancing, they are dancing)
And caught sight of this:
Underneath the bridge.
When I moved in closer, I saw a small thing that felt like a big thing in the moment.
Etching of my surname.
There it was.
My surname, a name connecting me to my father, mother, brother and generations that came before.
A word of personal connection, etched in concrete for eternity.
A testament to the power of art and memory.
And a really good writing prompt.
Is there a place that you feel connected to that you have never been? A place that has meaning for a family member or loved one? A place you only know from memory or artifact?
Street view of the bridge.
