Pastis? Oui. Politique? Non.


After a long museum day in another town, the idea of trying a pastis, the anise-flavored liquor that everyone seemingly drinks in this part of France, is top of mind. Walking into La Pergola Brasserie and standing at the bar with a camera strap around my neck invites questions from left and right.

D'ou venez vous?

Les etats unis.

Quel etat?

Arizona.

C'est loin.

Well, yeah. Getting here almost killed me.

From here on, the bar accords me minor-celebrity status. The bartender slides me a free drink. Like ouzo, pastis becomes a cloudy white when cold water is added. Slowly, I tip the carafe. When the level reaches the Ricard logo, three drinkers cry out: Arretez! The correct proportion has been achieved.

Que pensez-vous de Trump?

You knew this was coming. But French politics are no less divisive and incendiary, with many of the same revenge fantasies and resentments in play. As Barney Fife would say, nip it in the bud. This far from home, there is no upside to engaging. 

Unrehearsed, the words "que sera sera" tumble out of my mouth. 

Doris Day got me out of a jam; imagine that.

A strange horse race is unfolding on TV. Harness racing is familiar to me, but this is a trot race with jockeys on horseback. What in the actual fuck. Home seems tres loin.

My eyes turn toward a counter where a woman is selling cigarettes and issuing gambling slips. In my metropole of 1 million people there are THREE sites where off-track horse-race betting is possible. 

In Vence, the size of six football fields, you can gamble on seemingly anything, anywhere, at any time. Fish have no idea what water is. Similarly, in the French Riviera, where wagering is like breathing, there is no term for "off-track betting." 


Feeling guilty about freeloading, I order a second pastis, along with a large Pelforth pale ale.  My counter mates nod with approval. An unspoken test has been passed.

The bartender, Abby, brings me a snack. She wants to practice her English, asking me if Arizona is like France. Abby moved to Vence from Nice six months ago, saying small-town life is healthier. She's like 25. God bless these Vencoise.

On the walk home, a fresh breeze blows off the 2,000-foot baous that loom high above the village.



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