Sur le Pont d'Avignon
If I had known that the original dance was performed under the bridge, I might have saved myself some little trouble. Not a lot. Just a little.
There had been a small art museum I had promised a friend to visit, and it closed in mid-afternoon, so my plan was to do the museum as soon as I returned from the morning market in the new town across the River Rhone. Of course, I walked. By the time I got to the museum, my feet were on fire. All I can remember of it is a little bench sitting in front of a small painting by Van Gogh of a train (chemin de fer) (as nobody calls trains in France anymore) and wishing with all my heart that it would pop off the page and give me a ride to the bridge. Which turned out to be upriver a bit at the northern edge of town.
I remember passing a lovely little carousel (towns in both France and Italy seemed to delight in carousels) before staggering at last to the entrance to the bridge and nearly crawling up the stone stairs. I had been a little self-conscious about dancing on it unless others were (they weren't), but still one had to try. So I turned in a very tight circle, as if stepping on hot coals, mouthing the words
Sur le Pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le Pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond
under my breath, even more self-conscious about any nearby French hearing me butcher the lyrics.
Anyway, the old Bridge at Avignon reaches only halfway across the river. There's nothing fancy about it. But I was there and I danced, hoping nobody was watching what was really more of a hobble. So, been there, done that. Still very glad that I did!
