I am seated in the second-class coach of the train, on my way south to Avignon. The train moves at a steady pace, about fifty miles an hour. I lean back on the bristling acrylic velour of my seat, gazing at my reflection in the window. My hair is freshly bleached. My eyes look heavy and lost. I can feel my first cup of coffee, heated on the stove at Charlotte's flat, flushing through my system like a warm, black tonic. I have the equivalent of just over three dollars in my pocket.

The way to Avignon is misty and grey. Peace comes to me on the train, coming to terms with the news I received in the night that I would never see my car again -- the car my parents purchased fifteen years earlier and sold to me for $500 when I was sixteen. It's thousands of miles away, there is nothing I can do from here. The value of my car is less than what it would cost to bail it out of the tow yard. I don't think of what my life will be like when I get back to Oakland; homeless, unemployed, and now without transportation.

Over six hundred years ago, the French Pope Clement V moved the center of the Catholic universe from Rome to Avignon for his reign, and the reigns of four other French popes after him, for a period of just under seventy years. This was during the fourteenth century. A giant palace was erected, surrounded by gardens, cobblestone squares, and huge monuments and annexes to the castle. A thick wall surrounded the city to stave off invaders. The center of Catholicism resided briefly in this southern sunbathed town, beside a river and tucked between green valleys and forests. By 1367, it was back to Italy and the Eternal City.

As one might imagine, Avignon is now a Catholic tourist trap, especially Le Palais du Papes, which towers above the square where I sit among a cluster of umbrella-shaded tables, sipping at my black espresso, realizing that I had indeed left most of my money back in Grenoble and only had eight francs left. I shrug it off. There is no need for money today, as long as I have my return train ticket.

I tie my sweater around my waist and ascend the tiny, numerous stone steps to the ostentatious doors of the palace, which are flung wide to allow the crowds inside. The interior is cool and dark, with stained glass patterns drifting down in shapes of broken light. To the right is the lobby, which provides information in four languages, including English, about the guided tour, which costs twenty-five francs. Far more than I have. If I could have afforded it, I surely would have gone, having never seen the inside of a real medieval palace before. But, as has happened again and again on this trip, I am too poor.

The gardens alongside the castle are placid and pretty, full of children and birds. I walk up the snaking pathways past topiary gardens to the open, dusty plaza on top that looks over the river far below. My thoughts seem finally back with me, here in la belle France, instead of freaking out in Oakland somewhere.

The further from the palace I walk, the nicer Avignon becomes. It's clearly an ancient village, with streets wide enough for two horses abreast. Spring is finally in bloom, and tiny, fluffy, leafy things swirl through the warm air like down from a duck's belly. More castles loom hollow and grey throughout the town. There's even an old movie house that appears to be the home of an art film society, hidden in the corner of an inconspicuous crossroads. The streets are crowded with people; only in the narrowest, shadowy avenues can I walk on my own.

--Vingt-sixe! Vingt-sixe! a man calls out to me as I pass. I look down at the black shirt I'm borrowing from Charlotte, which reads "26" in silver iron-on across my chest.

--Vous etes tres intelligent, I mutter.

My train departs at six, back to Grenoble. I weave toward the train station, picking purple and yellow pansies from the round planters along the way. I step into a newsstand and read a few lines of the NME. My eyes linger fondly over the English text. I remember I will be back in London the day after next.

The sun looks like a new gold coin, its lazy last light slipping through the cabin of the train. I have scarcely opened my mouth all day. It's nice to be alone, to see a new place. In retrospect, I wonder if I should have gone to Arles, which is just one stop further along the route. Vincent van Gogh lived and painted for years in the countryside and town there.

At last back in Grenoble, I head toward Charlotte's with ease, confident of the layout of the city, my sense of direction firm and true, and the streets followed without even thinking twice. Charlotte is visiting a friend for the evening, so I listen to music, eat leftovers, and re-read Trainspotting, until heavy eyelids and limbs put me to bed.

© 1996