From Valence we swung more quickly than usual into the splendid Route Nationale above mentioned. It was Sunday. Peasants were entering and coming from the small age-worn churches. At that hour the fields looked strangely deserted. Blue skies were radiant, the air agreeably cooled by the rain of the night before, the dust well laid. More and more we were yielding to the fascination of Europe from a motor car. Train schedules did not trouble us. We were independent. There were no worries about having to arrive or depart at a certain hour. Life on the road was a constant flow of new impressions, new experiences. Every village had its own unique attraction. Many motor cars passed us, each one an object of interest. Possibly in our cruise along these high seas of the French roads our feelings were a little like those of the mariner when he sights a passing ship. Where does she hail from? Where her probable destination? Of what make? What flag is she flying? It was always a welcome sight to view the Stars and Stripes flying toward us. One can usually tell the American car even when some distance away, it is built so high. We noticed many Fords and Cadillacs. There is not much of a market in Europe for the expensive American car, because the foreign high-priced car is considered by the Europeans to be good enough. The cheaper American product has a market because few of the foreign firms make a cheap car.
High noon was upon us, the heat oppressive, our appetites ravenous, when we stopped in the poor little village of Pierrelatte. The prospect for lunch was not encouraging. A single stray resident appeared at the other end of the silent street. The houses might have been occupied by peasants who wrested mere existence from a barren soil. The inn, which was pointed out to us, would never have been recognized as such. It looked more like a venerable ruin. In an American town of this size we would have hesitated before entering, and then probably would have turned away in despair to look for a bakery shop to stay the pangs of hunger. But we were growing familiar with the small French towns. It does not take long to discover that a hotel with an exterior symbolizing woe and want can have a very attractive interior at lunch time.
The ancient Roman theater at Orange Page 88
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
We are still carrying pleasant memories of that lunch. There was potage St. Germain, made as only the French can make it. The oil for the salade was from the neighboring olive groves of Provençe. The haricots verts picked that morning in the garden, the raisins fresh from the vineyard. Best of all were the mushroom patties. One portion called for another. Our hostess was pleased; there was no mistaking our genuine appreciation of her cooking. Interrupting her culinary labors, she told us that the mushrooms were of her own canning. Each year it was necessary to lay in a larger supply. Tourists had found them so good that, on leaving, they had left orders for shipment to their home addresses. Now she was planning to erect a small factory. Her recital was interrupted by a Frenchman, who implored "une troisième portion." He purchased a dozen cans of mushrooms, and if they had been gold nuggets he could not have stowed them away more carefully in his car. The French are authorities when it is a question of good things to eat.
The road to Orange was like a continuous leafy arbor. This shimmering arcade was too refreshingly cool to be covered quickly. On the outskirts of Orange we halted to see the Arc de Triomphe, a wonderful echo from the age of Tiberius. The arch stands in a circular grassy plot and the road divides, as if this product of the Roman mind were too precious to be exposed to the accidents of ordinary traffic.
The antique theater at the other end of the town is just as remarkable for architectural splendor. It is not enough to say that this structure is the largest and most magnificent of its kind in the world. It is also the best preserved. Every year in August dramatic and lyrical performances are given by La Comédie Française. Thus, after nearly twenty centuries, the theater is still serving its original purpose. We were impressed by the auditory facilities. One of us stood on the lowest tier of seats, and the other on the topmost row. Even a whisper was distinctly audible. The erection of buildings with such perfect acoustics may perhaps be classed among the lost arts.
Arc de Triomphe at Orange