This year, I lived out one of my dreams.  To sit in a Provencal square, feeling like a local, drinking wine or pastis, smoking cigarettes. And writing! Here are the notes I scribbled in my notebook.

Place Paul Doumer, Arles

Sunday 2 June 2024

I’m living out my dream! I’m sitting in a Provencal square in Arles, my head fuzzy from a sneaky cigarette and the cheap rose I drank at lunchtime.

The square is surrounded by ancient buildings, windows bordered with wooden shutters in muted blues, paint peeling, pigeons fluttering from ledge to ledge. The muted sound of conversation, laughter, the French language a lyrical sound; and the throaty hum of a car pulling up beside the Café de la Roquette. My is noisette empty in its small orange cup, my daughter wearing a cap, jumper, leggings and running shoes is reading her kindle, thumb flicking through the pages – rapidement. The mistral, not cold, not hot, whips past my face from the alleyway on my right. The sky is clouded with patches of blue.

Tattooed youngsters kiss cheeks under the square’s tree and au revoir each other. A couple passes by on bicycles, the ticking sound as their wheels spin. A man on a bicycle glides by, a toddler perched in a seat behind him.

The smell is of jasmine, tobacco and coffee.

A woman in her 60s marches by, a small backpack and a bright lime green bag on wheels dragged behind her making a grumbling sound on the cobblestones.

The square has two trees, under which are a collection of tables and chairs. People smoke, drink coffee or beer and look at their phones.

On my left, two young men are joined by a lady with a handbag and leather jacket but her voice is masculine and I notice she is a man with a blonde wig. She’s wearing thongs and pink painted toenails. Her trousers are tights with lacy ends and sunglasses dangle from her fingers.  She leaves, having chatted in French for a few minutes to the two young men.

She’s moved over to another table, now sitting with a lady with orange hair. This is clearly a meeting place for locals. Its only our second day in Arles and we feel we’ve walked all the charming streets, narrow and ancient, with peeling paint, laden with fragrant jasmine, rue after rue of wondrous Instagram-worthy scenes of old-world charm, a world unfamiliar, with restaurants, shops selling lavender soaps, olive oils, wines, cured meats, cheeses, books… Now and then a street cat, lots of dogs on leads, the pace seems slow and languorous. Time has stood still.

The lull of voices around me grows louder as evening approaches. Its only 5.45pm and the sun is still high in the sky. An old man wearing a beret parks his bike outside the Café de la Roquette and goes inside. A toddler wobbles around the square exploring a parked Peugeot, his mother following. She sweeps him up in her arms. Later we see the same toddler followed by an anxious father with a full glass of golden beer in his hand. He sweeps the boy up in his right arm and returns to his table under the tree. My daughter and I agree that he is a cute baby. He wears dungarees and has wide-apart eyes and an intelligent face.

Wednesday 5 June 2024

Again in the square with a glass of rose from the Café de la Rochette. It’s our last night of five in Arles and I’m sad but my travelling companions are over this town. We know the streets quite well now and there is only so much gelato and pastries you can eat.

Opposite me is the lady with the orange hair and her granddaughter who works in the restaurant below our apartment.

Pigeons strut between my feet and under the tables. Its been a hot day and the shady square is just the right temperature. A dog barks and a vespa roars its engine past me. Two young girls at a nearby table draw and write in their notebooks, and a group of interesting youths beside me order tall glasses of biere and roll cigarettes. The one guy has clothes spattered with white paint, a silver chain link dangles from his ear and around his neck is a pair of earphones. He has the look of an artist – sharp face and roman nose and an elegant beard and moustache. A young girl in jeans and a grey t-shirt joins the group. Her clothes and hair are also splattered with white paint.

A guy stands in the doorway of O Jinko, smoking a cigarette. He wears long shorts, sleeveless t-shirt, running shoes and his cap backwards on his head. It’s hard to tell if O Jinko is open, with the door half open and no patrons, and its dark in the restaurant behind him. He sinks to a squat and thumbs his phone.

I notice a CBD shop across from me is open. It’s called High Society.

Between the buildings is blue sky with white cloud and starlings flit high above the roofs.

Some people sit on benches which aren’t part of either of the restaurants. An old man in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirts sports a grey handlebar moustache and peers through glasses at his phone. A family with a baby in a pram and little boy of about six years old. The waiter puts a bowl of peanuts on my table. Maybe I’m a local now!

An old lady staggers by with shopping bags and a baguette in one hand. She heads down Rue de la Fontaine, a straw hat on her head. A black guy pulls up on an electric scooter. He hands a plastic bag of shopping to a couple who head off down one of the side streets.

A baby in a bicycle seat is crying loudly. The mother seems embarrassed, smiles and offers an explanation to friends, and rides off with the baby down the Rue de la Roquette, taking the noise with her.

The waiter is setting up a new table, the one that usually rests up against the tree. The place is filling up. There’s a constant hum of voices.

A rasta looking dude has just pulled up on a skateboard at O Jinko. He’s wearing a shirt with green and yellow and dreadlocks. He goes inside with the other guy who was waiting in the doorway. Maybe they are finally open?