A Night at the Opera

There’s one church in Ramatuelle.

Being in France, it’s only natural that it’s catholic. It serves as a center of worship, a gathering place, a town hall, an auditorium, a museum – just as it did in the time of its creation when that was the norm for both country and religion. In Ramatuelle, the real world has hardly scratched the surface, updating the village only slightly from the 15th century. Maybe there’s indoor plumbing and electricity, but the Catholic Church remains the only place in town large enough to house a number of people… and you’d be hard pressed to fit more than 30 inside.

If you weren’t seeking it, it would be hard to find. The door to this tiny, ancient, one room church is hidden amongst the medieval stone walls of the hilltop town, easily missed no matter how many times you visit the post-office or butcher surrounding it. I had.

But not tonight. Tonight was an evening worth dressing up for – so I slipped on my most 1940s black & white polka dotted dress and some dainty high heels, fluffed my hair up and painted my lips red. Grandma and Papa dressed up too. We were going to a concert.

Ramatuelle, being such a small & quaint country village, doesn’t have a lot to offer. For the most part, the food is overpriced and aimed just to provide tourists with a mealtime view of the vineyard-covered valley disappearing into the azure Mediterranean Sea below. Papa, having spent so much time here, knows where to go for good food & wine, and that’s where we were headed.
Au Fil De La Pâte is a tiny restaurant often overlooked, with only 4 tables inside and two outdoors. The kitchen is run entirely by one sweet looking man, Benois, and he performs his tasks in front of the whole restaurant; for the kitchen is part of the dining room. The only waitress is a beautiful woman, Nadine, who excitedly greets us as we arrive.

“We were among their first clients, you see,” Grandma explains as Nadine and Benois receive her warmly, kissing her and talking French - genuinely happy to see such regular & kind clients. “She’s married to the chef here,” and she points to Benois, who is busy making raviolis for one of the tables in the blue & yellow tiled kitchen.

“Really?” and I laugh, taking in the very Provencal room – including all within it. “If they’re married, why is she kissing that playboy of a man that just walked in?”

Sure enough, a coin-operated boy with flowing golden locks and a smile to die for (I leave the rest of his body up to your imagination) was leaning over the country, caressing Nadine's face. Benois could have cared less.

“I suppose this is France, you know…” and Grandma & I laughed.

My grandparents and I had the best raviolis ever created. We drank wine, followed by tarte tropezian – the traditional dessert of the area, a raw sugarcoated sponge cake with a delicious custard filling – and espresso. The restaurant was small, an ambiance of casual familiarity, like the rest of Ramatuelle. Everyone knew everyone, everyone loved everyone, everyone was happy… absorbed in the life of a tiny village.

But dinner at this amazing restaurant was not the focus of our evening. We hurried outside to the church, where a line had already started to form. Grandma and I sat on the low stonewall leading up hill while Papa went ahead to wait for the doors to open. I laughed; there my very French grandfather stood with a cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders and dressed in khaki pants, waiting with a dozen elderly folks dressed remarkably like him. “Look at them,” I pointed for my grandmother, breathing in the star-filled night air, “a bunch of old Frenchies anxious to get into church. How cute, how Provençal!”

She just smiled, still staring at the orange September moon. “I don’t see why. It’s so ugly inside.” She’s not catholic, you see.

But she was right. The walls inside are cement gray and decorated scarcely. The Stations of the Cross are not but wooden numbers somehow fixed on the cold, bare sides of the tiny church. Above the alter hangs a single painting, a disgusting image of some Christian story where Mary floats in the sky, surrounded by cherubs, baby Jesus in her arms, staring down to a grown, bearded Jesus (or God?) and the angel Michel (Michael) holding a tilted scale of justice and thrusting a bloody spear into a groveling, cherry-red twisted devil. Staring at the medieval version of Lucifer, we filled in amidst a quiet buzzing of French, awaiting what was to come next.

The pews are hard as rock; simple and wooden. Grandma passed out cushions – “Trust me,” she warned, “you’ll need them.” This is old news for them; for me it’s something to be remarkably excited about. In this tiny church, the center of this small country town I adore, I’m going to see my first opera.

And it was beautiful. Each piece was preceded with a drawling explanation from a fat, cherub-looking conductor, all in French. The singers were dressed elegantly, sparkling with diamonds or lined with pearls. Their voices were amazing. I had no idea the skill, the beauty, of opera.

And I had no idea the amazing kindness and lovingness of my grandparents, who before this trip I realize I hardly knew.

Of course, all summer long, I have said that about everyone. Aunts and uncles, distant families and old friends. I have, through my adventure here in France, certainly grown closer to my extended my family as well as my mother, father and brother back home, and even my closest of friends.

Love you…