Provence
All this fascinating information caused a slow volcanic build-up during one restless London spring; I knew I was going hitch-hiking as soon as the holidays began, whether mum and dad approved or not.
It was the mid-sixties by now. Something big was about to happen; we all felt it in our bones. A year later the cultural tsunami of ’68 blew us away, with riots, wars and LSD. France that year was electric with talk of revolt; the whole nation remembered a discarded identity: nobody does revolution like the French do revolution. There was a Che Guevara with an Evita Peron in every café in Aix. In Avignon the old city walls were a perfect backdrop for beautiful young orators with black beards and shining eyes. I understood on that trip that revolutions were created so the various French classes could talk to each other again, just like under Danton and Robespierre. As in 1789, the moment was an orgasm of language, as if someone had finally got the cork out of the national fizz bottle and now everyone wanted some. Precise, Latin, cutting, slicing, charming, exploding – passionate speech was gratuit and partout; everyone had someone to talk to, or at least to listen to.