6/14 – 6/16/14. Nimes, France
The SNCF, France’s national rail network, is a dictatorship on the model of Vichy. Whatever his official title, its director is the true president of France; and when he bids his numberless minions to strike, the country trembles. Tourists he regards as a warden does the prisoners in his charge: condemned, and fit only for public punishment. I first felt his malice in the station this morning, when I discovered that my train, so carefully reserved a month in advance, no longer existed. When I pointed this out to a worker in the information booth, he shrugged and suggested a train due to arrive in eight hours: “I am sorry, Monsieur; but today will be difficult.”
And so it was. In the end I found a train that stopped in Avignon, from which I managed to catch a bus to Nimes. Since my hotel is located literally across the street from the bus and train stations, I lost little time unpacking, and soon set out to explore Nimes, my base of operations for the next three days. Like the neighboring city of Arles, Nimes is best known for its well-preserved Roman ruins. The most spectacular of these – and the one I chanced upon first – is the superb amphitheater. Roughly a third the size of the Coliseum, this structure is remarkable chiefly for its state of preservation. Although substantial parts of the seating have disappeared, virtually the whole of the outer wall and inner galleries have survived intact. The arena is still used to show bullfights and other spectacles. I walked most of the uppermost tier of seating while listening to the informative, if sometimes melodramatic, audioguide.
On my way to see Nimes’ other Roman relics, I stopped into the local archaeological museum for a quick look at the exhibits. After the state of the art presentation at Lyon, the dusty disorder of the Nimes museum was an unpleasant surprise. I rather liked, however, the fact that it was paired with the natural history museum, with the result that an enormous stuffed giraffe –“Maurice” – was set among the collection of Roman statuary.
The Maison Caree, perhaps the most famous Roman building in France, was rather more dignified. Set proudly on its podium in a modern square roughly approximating the size and shape of the original forum, this beautifully-preserved temple evokes the dignity and richness of architecture in the age of Augustus. Initially dedicated to the imperial cult, the structure was successively converted into a church (whence its preservation), private house, stable, museum, and finally a venue for a rather tedious movie on the history of Nimes. The exterior, however, has remained virtually unchanged, a monument to the durability – or rather, the enduring appeal – of Roman imperial architecture.
Until the sixteenth century, Nimes possessed two perfectly preserved Roman temples. The other, the so-called Temple of Diana, was also dedicated to the imperial cult. In contrast to the Maison Caree, with its canonical “Vitruvian” design, the Temple of Diana followed a unique plan apparently inspired by contemporary libraries. Regrettably, it was largely destroyed in the French Wars of Religion. What remains is a picturesque and still impressive ruin, shaded by pines. While studying the intricate system of niches and pilasters dressing the standing walls, I noticed that some of the graffiti etched into the limestone dated back to the eighteenth century. Some human impulses, I suppose, never change.
The Temple of Diana stood beside the spring that gave ancient Nimes –Nemausus –her name. In the early eighteenth century, Louis XIV commissioned a royal engineer to channel the spring’s waters into an elaborate system of fountains and holding pools. The resulting ensemble, both practical and ornamental, remains a prominent feature of the city center. Spigots offer thirsty walkers a chance to refill their water bottles; but having seen a number of children and dogs swimming in the source, I decided to stick with Evian.
6-15
The strike continues, crushing dreams and itineraries in its wake. A complete lack of trains to Arles or Orange restricted today’s travels to Avignon, city of the popes for most of the fourteenth century (and of anti-popes for the rest).
The highlight of any visit to Avignon is the massive Palace of the Popes, one of the largest medieval buildings in existence. Although little remains of the sumptuous decoration that awed visitors and horrified Petrarch, the sheer scale of the complex is impressive. The few rooms that have retained their original tiles and paintings hint at lost sumptuousness. Although the popes only inhabited these chambers for some forty years, no place better evokes the glory and corruption of the high medieval church. Standing in the great chapel by the site of the papal seat, I could imagine some Clement or Benedict in a gilded cathedra beside me, eyes on the mass but mind tabulating investitures and Peter’s pence.
After strolling the picturesque lanes of Avignon –and past the famous bridge –I decided to visit the city’s two main art museums. Both were pleasant, not least because I had them mostly to myself.
6-16
Confronted with an almost complete stoppage of local trains throughout southern France, I had to content myself with travelling by (very slow) bus back to Avignon, and waiting for the only train to Arles. The journey from Nimes to Arles, which normally takes no more than twenty minutes, thus consumed four hours.
The train to Arles finally arrived, and I departed with it. With Nimes and Orange, Arles is home to the most impressive Roman ruins in France. It combines these attractions with a charming old quarter, a handful of Romanesque churches, and a fine location on the banks of the Rhone.
I began with the amphitheater, an impressive building, though not quite so well preserved as its counterpart in Nimes. Here, where most of the seats have been stripped away, one sees a great Roman structure reduced to its bones. The effect is every bit as evocative as that of a fossilized Tyrannosaurus.
After muddling through puddles in the dank cyrptoproticus (a subterranean Roman market structure, I visited the neighboring cathedral and cloisters of St. Trophime. The church –dedicated to an obscure local saint –is one of the most important examples of Romanesque architecture in France. The interior is dark and austere; but the south portal is ornamented with a riot of sculpture, a whole series of Bible stories chased with scrolls and animal figures. I particularly liked the lowest register, where a series of figures with plaintive expressions (sinners or martyrs, presumably) were being devoured by lions.
After a brief visit to the remains of the Roman theater, I proceeded to the Alyscamps (Elysian fields), a Late Antique and early Medieval cemetery that once contained thousands of carved sarcophagi. Many have disappeared, but the surviving examples, arrayed along a shady avenue on the outskirts of town, are still evocative. The most ornate tombs have been moved to the new museum –my last stop –where they are displayed alongside some fine mosaics, a smattering of sculptural fragments, and (most impressively) a well-preserved Roman barge, ninety feet long, recently recovered from the Rhone.
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