Flower Fair, Tarascon
This post about Tarascon is long overdue. I keep talking about the gallery, the house in Provence, but the town itself plays a central role, obviously.
I had a bit of a love/hate relationship with that town, but as they say, love conquers all!
The first time I seriously heard about it was when I was a teenager and my parents announced that we would leave Paris to bury ourselves in a remote provincial town with a name that sounded like a joke to me. Until then, the only thing I knew was the 19th-century comedic novel by Alphonse Daudet mocking the plump, braggart local character Tartarin of Tarascon and the other inhabitants of this little Provençal town.
Place de la Concorde, Tarascon
Relocation and adjustment are never easy for a teenager. It was hard to leave behind my friends, my life, my city, my culture.
Although I was born in Aix-en-Provence and most of my family was still in the South of France, this was more of a summer vacation spot to me rather than an actual place to live.
The move coincided with the start of high school and the adjustment wasn’t easy. I was the « Parisian » for my schoolmates, and both they and some of my teachers were poking fun at my accent, or rather the lack thereof.
I still have a vivid memory of being asked to go to the board to solve a tricky equation and being totally dumbfounded by my mischievous math teacher telling me to « esquiche ! » with a booming voice. I was frantically recalculating, not getting what he was saying, trying to find what I did wrong (which was unusual for me as I was a straight-A student). He was simply asking me to use less space on the board, using an intentionally thick accent and local vernacular terms, and the class was roaring with laughter.
Although this experience built my resolve to escape the place and go back to Paris after high school, I also started to appreciate my local life in what was still a very rural town of 10,000 inhabitants with a strong cultural identity.
All those memories came back to me as I was leisurely strolling through the annual Flower Fair.
The feeling was exhilarating. I started my tour browsing the various stands of local treats and crafts below the medieval arches of Rue des Halles, enjoying the joyful atmosphere, and marveling at the sight of so many people wearing traditional costumes.
Traditional costumes
I even bought a little Tarasque print (our local legendary monster from the Middle Ages) from a woodcarver, like a well-mannered visitor.
Woodcarver prints, Atelier du Pib
When I reached the esplanade, I was stopped in my tracks by the stunningly colorful display of all those flowers, plants, and pots. The Marché aux Fleurs from my memories had never been so vibrant and beautiful.
Flower Fair, Tarascon
I couldn’t help myself and bought a few flower pots for the balconies, although I wanted to delay decorating and planting until next year, after the renovation works are done.
And on my way back home, I had a good chuckle passing a lone old man admiring the vintage tractors while the rest of the town was still on the other side of town with the flowers.
The old man and the tractor
Once back home, I promised myself that I would have a fresh exhibition at the gallery ready for that same weekend, something as poetic, joyful, and uplifting as the fair outside.
