The decision to go to Avignon for the theater festival was not spontaneous, but we delayed its implementation. The rental car had already been picked up, the hotel had been booked long ago, and we were all sitting in a sushi place in the center of Paris, looking through the glass at a homeless man who was sleeping comfortably on a bench, with a liter bottle of wine under his head. It was July, and I didn’t want to go out on the highway under the hot French sun.

As a result, we arrived in Avignon at three in the morning. It was impossible to imagine anything better: as it turned out, you need to come here at night in order to find the city without people and not immediately overheat to death in the sun.
None of our company had been to Avignon before, and the first meeting with the city surprised everyone, to put it mildly. We simply didn't see him. There was a sign with the name, but there were no houses or streets. Instead, there was an endless fortress wall, reminiscent of our Kremlin one.

Any Muscovite is accustomed to respect the Kremlin from childhood, so with all reverence we drove along the wall, looking for the city itself. A hot wind blew over us, as if from an oven, and we wondered, not without horror, what it would be like here during the day. Bats fluttered silently above the trees. To the left stretched an endless wall, to the right darkened dense southern greenery - plane trees interspersed with blackberries. Only about five minutes later we finally made up our minds and turned into one of the arches, feeling like passengers in a presidential armored car driving under the arches of the Borovitskaya Tower.

Inside the Kremlin there was a huge medieval city. Time-worn three-story stone houses stood side by side with huge medieval cathedrals and castles. It was empty, and only the rats, huddled near the street fountain, pointed their noses in our direction.

We settled down in a vacant spot in front of the locked gate, figuring that no one would try to open it at night, and went to wander the streets. In the park in the back courtyard of the papal castle, we came across a rookery of tourists and actors, snoring peacefully among drums and pipes in sleeping bags spread out in the open air. In the wall behind them there was a staircase that led us to the huge square in front of the Palace of the Popes - just in time to get a breath of fresh air after the stuffy alleys.

In the light of the full moon, the Palais des Popes, the largest Gothic castle in France, shone like a giant cliff. Everything around resembled a monstrously sized illustration for a school history textbook.

Having passed through a deserted square, we again ran into the fortress wall, behind which the waters of the Rhone glittered like liquid silver. The famous Avignon Bridge was locked at night, like some kind of museum. Not far from the bridge, fortunately, we found the very arch behind which we had left the car. We rustled around with the map of Europe for a long time, taping the windshield so that the light from the headlights wouldn’t hit our eyes so much. The sunroof was left open for air flow. There were no mosquitoes. Why is that so? Everything for some and nothing for others? Even they have mosquitoes – and they don’t poison people’s lives.

At ten in the morning a modest man came and, delicately knocking on the window, began to ask us to clear the entrance to his garage. We drove the car away and, fairly rumpled from sleep, headed into the city.

It seemed as if while we were sleeping, a floodgate had opened, holding back the flow of people. Avignon was filled with crowds of people. Musicians, actors and clowns appeared everywhere in the streets and squares, freaks in ridiculous outfits and girls with flowing hair, chanting, apparently something from the vagants.
The only thing that didn't melt from the heat was the glass in the houses, which is why the air-conditioned McDonald's was wildly successful. In the park on the hill near the Palace of the Popes, where there was shade and at least some breeze was felt, two young beauties were learning with a group of kindergarteners a song from the times of Philip the Fair about Brother Jaco, who is still sleeping, and meanwhile the bell is ringing for mass.

Trout swam in a muddy pond decorated with statues of saints. A square filled with people, vineyards across the river, the ruins of some castle on the other side, an ancient bridge leading to nowhere in the middle of the Rhone, along which festively dressed people walked - all this looked like a gigantic decoration for the carnival and theatrical action raging around. On the signs “Giving performances in the park is prohibited!” No one, of course, paid attention.

During the festival, performances take place here all day long. In addition to the main program, there is also an “off program”, which is presented by groups who come to Avignon at their own expense in order to risk showing themselves to the public and producers. In addition, many amateurs, traveling circus performers and musicians show their art in literally every nook and cranny, without spending money on renting a hall.

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Towards evening we collapsed at a cafe table on the central square. Arrogant, big-faced waiters, serving coffee, casually pushed aside onlookers who were blocking the view of visitors. It was getting dark. The people watched the crowd of lucky people who had tickets for the French production of “Platonov” in their hands and disciplinedly entered the Palace of the Popes.

From nowhere, a company of three English clowns emerged; their ringleader was a strong red-haired girl in striped leggings. She pulled several people out of the crowd and tied them together so that they could not move. The audience laughed, the intricate knot of people sweated, blushed and giggled.
Around the corner, on a small platform between two medieval buildings, a serious group of spectators listened to the melodious story of an actor who was performing a puppet show in the old style. A little to the side, a guy and a girl, using a pair of spotlights and a magic box, showed a shadow theater to the children sitting on the warm stones of the pavement.

The cutest were two guys with puppets at one of the intersections. The first one had little The Beatles dancing under his arms, and the other controlled luxurious green toads, one of which played the piano, and the second sang into the microphone. Under the soundtrack, of course, but it hit the plywood much better than master Kirkorov.

After sitting in the square, we went to the hotel where we had rented rooms to take a bath and drink a cup of coffee. On the dark river barges and boats were moored, the lights were on inside and families of tourists like us were visible having dinner; The barge here can be rented for the duration of the festival, like a car or a hotel room.
Before going to bed, fragments of the day's impressions were spinning in my head: a conversation with the Germans, stunned by the carnival, who at all costs wanted to give us a map of the city (and they did - the Germans are very persistent people), the cool greenish waters of the Rhone, into which we so wanted to fall from the bridge.

The next day there was a trip to the “open courtyard” of the Palace of the Popes - to an avant-garde ballet staged by a choreographer with the dance name Sasha Waltz. It’s difficult to say what makes a greater impression, the venue itself or what is shown on it. Imagine: here in the 14th century, the merciless Templar destroyer Philip the Fair ordered the cardinals to be locked up until they chose a new pope. They, as you know, chose the sickest person, hoping that it was temporary, but he took it and recovered.
During the festival, one thing is required of a tourist in Avignon - immersion in the atmosphere. There is no need to do anything, no need to strain yourself trying to please yourself. Everything is fine now. The main thing is to get here. Then you just need to sit on a hot night in a T-shirt and shorts on Chime Square, drink lemonade with pieces of ice, and everything else will be done for you. They will show you an indecent pantomime, blow a trombone into your ear, make you laugh, and thrust a leaflet into your hand with an invitation to an evening performance.

You won’t find anything like this either in Paris, rebuilt by Napoleon, or on the beaches of the Cote d’Azur. Heat is not an obstacle. You need to go to France in July, and go straight to Avignon.

USEFUL INFORMATION FOR TRAVELERS

The 58th season of the Avignon Theater Festival in 2004 will take place from 3 to 27 July. The preliminary program can be viewed at www.festival-avignon.com

French Embassy in Moscow B. Yakimanka, 45, 937 15 00. Applying for a visa through a travel agency costs $150.

The local cuisine is famous for papalines, which are made from chocolate, liqueur and sugar, as well as Cotes du Rhone wines (Avignon is the capital of the region). The city has a huge number of coffee shops and tea houses.

Shopping - pedestrian areas in the area of St Agricol Street, Avenue of the Republic. During the festival there are sales, which are attended by many Parisians.

The most popular local souvenirs are various pillows stuffed with lavender and toilet paper holders in the shape of girls in old Provençal outfits.

Tickets for performances are sold at tourist offices and theater box offices. They cost from 10 to 150 euros. Occasionally you get free invitations.

You can get to Avignon from Paris by direct TGV train (2 hours 40 minutes) or by car along the expressway (5 hours).

Hotels must be booked in advance. For accommodation they charge from 50 to 250 euros per day.

The climate is Mediterranean, hot. Bring sun cream and a Panama hat and drink more mineral water.

A visit to the municipal outdoor swimming pool costs 20 euros. Men are allowed only in tight swimming trunks; visitors in long beach shorts are not allowed into the water.

Most French banks refuse to accept hundred dollar bills.

City of Captive Popes