The Fates Being Kind (standard:travel stories, 1113 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Jun 02 2005	Views/Reads: 4246/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The truth I never believed the fates have been kind, however, as for many, each year passes and brings forth new perceptions, new priorities, and now, when I look back and what has happened, the love, the tragedies, the love, the work, the love, I find th

If the fates are kind, the wise man will gradually release himself from
the harness of the years and shrug off the routine of a days work, 
seeking instead some sanctity he can believe in. I thought about this 
walking amid the shadows and the passageways of St. Paul de Vence this 
afternoon, a small but historic market town in the south of France, 
just an hour's bus ride from the flurry of Nice, smouldering as it does 
on the Cote d'Zur. 

I've been a frequent visitor to St. Paul's during the last twenty years,
but recall especially my first visit. I took the bus from Nice, not 
being certain where it would take me, which excited me tremendously, 
and was delighted to find the ride terminated in a small, tree shaded 
square in the centre of St. Paul de Vence. I spent the afternoon 
wandering through the picturesque town in my own sweet way, stepping 
inside artists' workshops, admiring beautiful stained glass exhibits 
and thriving on the smell of freshly ground coffee while all the time 
smiling back at the myriad of folk doing the same as me. It was an 
inspiring walk, winding my way through the narrow passages, stepping 
aside the various potted plants, ducking the flowers and ivies hanging 
down from ancient windows, while the sun's brightness danced patterns 
amid the shadows. It was slow progress for I had to stop every few 
yards to admire the artistry of the hand painted shop signs. It was an 
enchantment; an enchantment that continues to this day. Even among so 
many people, I could not resist the feeling of tranquillity, or sharing 
in the insatiable curiosity of people, and listening to laughter being 
born and reborn from the sidewalk café's, while verandas filled with 
giant parasols shade the people drinking coffee, or wine, and seemingly 
eating each other's smiles. 

This year becomes my twentieth visit to the town. I've made friends
here. Store owners welcome me, enticing me forward to spend money, 
remembering, I must assume, that six months ago I paid too much for a 
painting, while another store recalled that I always buy boxes of 
candles instead of the customary one or two. St. Paul's sits atop the 
hill on which the town is built, and having made my way up through the 
rambling passageways to its door, I step inside, cross my chest, light 
a candle, and then simply sit awhile and wonder at the beauty of it 
all. 

Turning fifty I sought to take stock of my life, promising myself to
prepare for the anticipated break that comes ten or fifteen years 
ahead. Life has many secondary interests and after giving my best to 
the work and to my family, those once secondary interests took on a new 
meaning and importance. I soon realized that there is no peril in 
boredom. Neither am I in bondage to work. Some medical experts report 
that it is unwise for a man to give up his life long interest in work 
at sixty or sixty five, for pretty soon he will wither away and die. 
I'm sorry to hear that, but it doesn't relate to me. Work has never 
been a cause that took my life over; rather the cause became the work. 
But never to the point that it was the only thing that mattered, and 
the same with money, never underestimating the depth of its importance, 
but it, too, never held much interest for me. Nevertheless, I recognize 
that being able to live where I want to live is a reward for a life's 
labour of love, not me seeking money as my first cause. 

Sitting in the shady square I watch some of the towns elderly residents
come and go, some hunched, some lame, some holding the hands of 
granddaughters or grandsons, some just shuffling along carrying bags of 
shopping, being careful to track the shade. Others in my view include 
young lovers, their walk a tangle of arms around each other, with joy 
on their faces and hope in their hearts. Then there is the man who sits 
opposite me. By some miracle of balance, for which I have no 
explanation, he arrived riding a bicycle, which he dismounted in 
‘lady-like' fashion, and propped up against the bench. The bike is 
black, with flat  ‘u' shaped handlebars, the kind I remember the 
meat-market boys used to ride when I was a kid, seemingly ancient with 
a sturdy wire basket on the front, containing a stick of bread, and 
another basket, a larger one fixed on the back. The tall, frail figure 
stooped to remove a cycle-clip holding his right trouser leg tightly 
around his ankle.  He wears a soft, brimless black beret angled on his 
head with pride, and the stick of bread now protrudes from under his 
arm, the end of which is broken and crumbling, torn apart and thrown to 
the ground for the pigeons. His hands, vein mapped, appear to suffer 
from some kind of bone destruction which has allowed the skin to sag 
and fold. Even in this eighty degree heat, he wears a dark jacket, 
buttoned up under his chin, with bread flakes clinging down its front. 
He is remarkably unbent for a man his age. I understand instinctively 
that here is a man of stature, a man active all his life, a man proud 
of his beret. The features on his face appear chiselled there, strong, 
sharp, as if marble, yet creased and tough. He tore off another chunk 
of bread and hurled it to the pigeons, now joined by thirty or forty 
more, eagerly asserting their position for the next offering. I look at 
him for some minutes, wondering about his life, the simplicity, maybe, 
or the heartache. This is his place, not mine; I simply share it with 
him. What I somehow understood this afternoon was how this old man had 
freed himself of worldly ambition. I believe I instinctively knew how 
he didn't have any more use for the temporary prizes of life, the 
prizes striven for by younger men. Maybe he's a man separated from his 
past if not his beret, and is now at peace with himself. 

By evening St Paul deVence is a town that gathers whispers. They come
from every corner. Call it table talk. It begs you to wander. It 
insists you care about art, about religion, about history, and about 
beauty. There are many places like it in the world. I come here to 
wander, to sit at a table and enjoy the wine, eat the cheese, and watch 
life. Perhaps one day you'll walk by. If you do, say hello. 


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