Monday morning I got up early and went down to the lobby to ask Miriam about a bus to Vaison la Romaine.  She gave me the schedule and directions to the bus depot.  They had fairly recently changed its location and, of course, last night we had been searching for it in completely the opposite direction.

            We found the station easily enough but could not decipher the timetable to see which bus we should get on.  After enlisting the help of everyone else who was waiting and not being able to figure it out we saw a bus sitting across the street and only too late realized it was the one we should be on.  So I guess our trip to Vaison would have to wait another day.

            Now what should we do?  Our first order of business was to find some food.  Jayné had still not yet gotten a sweet crêpe and she was really wanting one.  In our previous wanderings around Orange we had noticed a café with a sandwich board sign out front reading “Crêpes Anytime” (In English oddly enough!)  We knew as long as they were open we would be able to get a crêpe there so we headed off.  As we approached we saw that the sign was still beckoning from the sidewalk, the door was propped open and there were a few ladies inside sitting with a cup of coffee.  A worker was bustling around behind the counter and we could hear someone banging pots and pans around in the kitchen.  It seemed they were open for business so we stationed ourselves at a table near the window and looked out into the square while we waited for menus.

            We waited, and waited.  The waiter made no move to come see what he could do for us, but since he was bustling about with his duties this did not concern us too much.  We had learned that everything in a restaurant takes just a bit longer in France and we were content to talk and gaze out the windows upon the square.  At last the waiter came and looked at us questioningly as if to say “What do you want?” although he never uttered a word.  When we asked for menus he shrugged and told us “No menus.  Would you like a coffee?”  Jayné and I looked at each other flabbergasted.  But what about the sign – Crêpes Anytime? 

            “Could we have crêpes?”

            “Non.”  He told us.  “Non crêpes.” 

            It was just too much for out limited French linguistics to try to question him further about why they advertised that you could order crêpes anytime when this was clearly not the case.  Maybe it was the use of the English word “anytime” that they did not fully comprehend the meaning of.  In any case we really needed to get some food in our stomachs to counteract the low blood sugar that had set in by now.  Declining to order any drinks we excused ourselves and left the restaurant passing the “Crêpes Anytime” sign on the way out.  Apparently crêpes anytime to the French means anytime they decide to serve them – which was definitely not now!

            As we wandered the streets of Orange we began to notice the same phenomenon everywhere.  All the cafés were open and workers were inside doing whatever they were doing, but everyone sitting at the tables was drinking only coffee.  There was no breakfast food to be seen anywhere.  Coming from America where breakfast means eggs, pancakes and bacon and even “continental breakfast” offered at hotels consists of muffins and bagels, fruit, yogurt and cold cereal among other things – it finally hit home that we really were on “The Continent” and if they ate breakfast at all it would only be a small croissant or piece of dry baguette.

            Well as they say, “When in Rome -  do as the Romans”.  So we went to the bakery and bought a baguette (I bought one with walnuts to try to add some protein to my diet).  Then we sat down at an outdoor table at a café and ordered little pots of tea and ate our bread supplemented with a yogurt we had also purchased from the little grocery stand.

            We spent the rest of the morning looking in shops we had missed on Saturday.  We went to a cheap warehouse style grocery store just on the edge of downtown that Christine had recommended to us to look for teacups and tea towels.  While there we decided to buy some food for a picnic lunch.  After picking out a bottle of local wine we went to the cheese case and we were suddenly in cheese heaven!  The case was filled with a wide array of cheeses – most of them chèvre, goat cheese, which was the common cheese of the region.  Some were hard cheeses, some soft, some “moldy”, some not.  I wanted to buy them all!  We picked out several different ones to try and when we ate them later back in our room along with our wine, some apples and cookies we finally had our first successful cheese experience of the trip.  The next few days would prove to be filled with much more good cheese and it would wipe all previous bad cheese experiences from my mind (well, almost).  I was just grateful I was not lactose intolerant (although after all the cheese I was to eat in the next few days I was afraid I might develop an allergy from an overdose of cheese!)

            We spent the afternoon exploring the hill of Saint Eutrope which rose above the ancient theater.  The entire hill was a park and it was crisscrossed with numerous paths.  We had fun exploring the ancient ruins of a fortress dating from the 1600’s which once stood on the hill.  There were lookout areas with views over the rooftops of town and beyond to the distant hills.  We stayed there watching the view until the sun started to set in the western sky and the air began to cool.  Then on our way back to the hotel we were distracted by a group of children with a basket of kittens.  Jayné was smitten and wanted to take one of these French kitties home as a playmate for Oscar.  Knowing it was an impossibility we settled for taking photographs of the children and kittens instead – with their mother’s permission of course – and entertained them by showing them the playback of the photos on my digital camera’s display screen.  Their mother was delighted and gave me her address so I could send her copies of the photos.  Only then did I realize that they probably did not even own a camera.

            It was approaching dinner time and we were looking for a restaurant that would provide authentic regional cuisine.  We asked at our hotel and they recommended Le Yaca, a restaurant only a block away from the hotel.  We were one of the first customers to arrive and were greeted by the proprietor who also served as our waiter.  I never saw who was in the kitchen but I’m sure that it was his wife since most of these establishments are family owned and operated.  He seated us and we were able to survey our surroundings.  The room was quite small.  There were only about 8 or 10 tables with seating for around 25 people.  Some of the walls were ancient stone and some were plastered and painted a cheery yellow.  There were bright Provencal tablecloths in a sunflower design covering the tables and each table was adorned with a vase containing fresh roses.   The owner treated us as his personal guests and saw to it that we had all we could ever need or want. 

            Perusing the menu I was delighted to see items such as boef en daube, cuisses de grenouille, foie gras, and lapin.  I could see it was just the sort of place we were hoping for.  I was intrigued by one item in particular – soup de poisson (fish soup).  I had made a habit of looking at the posted menus of all the restaurants around town that we had passed and I remember seeing soup de poisson on nearly every menu.  It was obviously a regional specialty.  I was intrigued yet also apprehensive at the same time.  I thought if I ordered it I might get a bowl of fish heads floating in broth.  “Be brave.”  I told myself.  “Be adventurous.”  After all, this is what we wanted right?  A regional experience.  Okay.  I decided to try it.  Jayné as usual followed my lead and we both ordered a bowl along with a salad niçoise to share.

            When our food arrived I could not have been more pleased.  Our proprietor carried a lidded tureen and a tray of condiments and set them down on our table.  Knowing we were unaccustomed to the cuisine he kindly and enthusiastically demonstrated how to serve our soup.  You were to take a crouton and rub it all over with a whole raw garlic clove, then spread rouille, a spicy red mayonnaise over the crouton and place it in the bottom of your bowl.  Next, sprinkle on some grated cheese and lastly ladle the soup over the top.  He lifted the lid of the tureen and I was delighted and relieved to see a slightly thick blended soup of a reddish brown color.  No fish heads here – at least, none discernable!

            We followed his instructions and I ladled the steaming soup into my bowl.  As the steam rose up to my nose I breathed it in deeply.  It didn’t even smell fishy.  This soup was incredible!  It was garlicky and spicy and the crispy crouton balanced perfectly with the creamy texture of the soup.  As I ate I found myself singing a song that Sebastian the crab sang in the Little Mermaid  “Le poisson, le poisson, how I love le poisson!”  I found this song involuntarily coming from my lips for days afterwards.