Last night in Arles. Friday nights in Christchurch and the punters watch rugby. It's league in Australia, soccer in the UK and boxing in the US. In some parts of South West France on Friday night there is only one game in town and it's all about gore, and lots of it at that. Down to the central area of the old city (The Forum) for drinks . As had been the case on previous nights our first port of call was a wine bar called The Toubadour.Charlie, the old Parisian who owns the bar has decorated the place as some kind of shrine to his recently retired Arlesian Matador son, the one and only self titled El Lobo. Apparently the son was the real deal and dealt to any number of bulls over the years, however politics play a big part when a Matador attempts to get into the big league in Spain, and regrettably El Lobo just couldn't get the breaks and saved face by way of early retirement back in 2005. (I bet a heap of Arles based bulls heaved a collective sigh of relief when they heard that news)
Julia and I went to a full on bull fight in the main Madrid bullring back in the late seventies. I remember walking away from that experience and swearing I would never watch another fight and yet here we are gulping down reds whilst night after night watching live fights beamed out onto Charlie's wide screen TV courtesy of some Spanish 24hr bull fighting channel. It's a weird experience watching a spectacle that should run against your principles. And the funny thing is, Charlie kept on telling Julia that the this spectacle pits man against bull. What a crock. By my reckoning when we had left the bar the score was Humans 12 and Bulls 0.
By the time we returned to our hotel we had agreed that we had seen enough fights for one night, so we called it quits and went to bed.
But just we were finally dropping off we were woken by hissing, screeching and spitting cats from the roof next door. This eventually died down and it was all quiet on the front so sleep took us over.
Then the main bout of the evening hit with avengence around 1130 when we were woken to the screams of a couple who live in the house next to our second floor room in the hotel.
And let me tell you this was the mother of all domestic disputes. Our best guess was that this epic altercation involved the senior male member of the household and either his wife or a daughter.
This was a take no prisoners epic. We figured out fairly early on that the guy must have thrown the woman out of the house then locked the front door.
This woman was not going quietly. She gave us more hissing and screeching like another moggy.
We are not talking mild mannered Kiwi type disputes here. This was fully blown Latino temperament in the extreme.
We were in a bit of a fix as outside it was still around thirty degrees so closing the double glazed windows simply wasn't an option as we would have been gasping for air in no time flat and the wooden shutters couldn't block out the racket.
Sleep was simply not an option so we just lay back and listened in as this drama unfolded.
Julia translated for me and the endless repeated lines of abuse appeared to be
"Bitch", "Bastard" , "You tell me" followed inevitably by "No, you tell me"
Questions and abuse followed by a return serve.
These attacks simply didn't move on.
Times passing, 1130, 1230 , 0130, 0230 and there is still no let up.
By this stage the woman has started slamming the street side window shutters in some kind of act of defiance .
The guy must have relented at this point as the argument moved indoors.
Too late , some angry neighbour had finally had enough and called the cops.
Now this is interesting territory. Our French friends and ex pats living in France have all told us that when it comes to the authorities you steer clear of the Gendarmes who have a reputation for acting first and asking questions later. The regular police on the other hand are regular guys and OK.
Down the street come three vehicles with blue lights flashing.
The scene below our window was pretty impressive.
I had hoped that we might see the Gendarmes in action and were a little dissapointed to see that they were only regular cops.
That aside, these cops proceeded to turn off their engines and then lined themselves up against the wall of a building opposite the target house.
Normal procedure, safety first.
At this point our room is flooded with blue light as was the street below now awash in blue.
The whole scene turned into one of deathly silence. The cops weren't saying a word, the on lookers were keeping their distance (that's us ) and staying mum.
Then on a signal these cops proceeded to open up the shutters of the downstairs windows of the targeted house and to flood the downstairs living area with light from half a dozen incredibly powerful torches.
And all the while no one is saying a word. This was all pretty dramatic stuff and was far more satisfying that sleep.
Then finally a cop knocks on the door with a large truncheon.
Out comes the male.
In a low and very threatening voice the cop lays down the law and finishes of with a "don't force me to come back and arrest all of you".
And that's that.
Until 0530 when this couple started round two and this time their dialogue was ferocious . Screaming! My God, a Hollywood actress wouldn't have been in the same league.
The end play was that the guy finally exploded. This level of anger must have clicked something inside the woman's brain as she then sprinted off down the street, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs.
Street theatre , there should be more of it!
It's just a pity that one has to wait around to nearly midnight before the first act takes place.
And as for the two hour intermission between three and five in the morning, I reckon someone should give serious thought to shortening the break to maybe ten minutes.
Cheers
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