Vaga-Blog - Volume II - Outside of Arles (June 16)

MAS de CHAINSAW MASSACRE

Today we packed up and checked out of the maison. I have a house reserved for the week with my parents, who arrive Sunday. I can check in Saturday, so I invite Steve and Laura to stay with me that night until they head back to Italy to scout future locations.

When my parents decided to visit this week, my Dad and I investigated a thousand different properties in Provence. They’ve never been to France, so we wanted to stay in the perfect, charming, Provencal haven you picture when you think of a home in southern France. We narrowed our choices to three, and I ultimately made the final decision.

We drove to the property separately, and Steve and Laura pulled up the drive twice and retreated both times before I got there. Once because this couldn’t possibly be the right place, and once because they were chased by an angry rabid drooling barking dog. And I like dogs.

The Mas, which herein shall be referred to as Mas de Chain Saw Massacre, was at best not quite what we pictured. In reality, it was a hideous dump. We pulled up the driveway, and the first thing you see is a six-foot-high rusty security fence lining the property. Just before the fence as you’re pulling up is a huge monstrosity that can only be described as a barn, filled with manure and other farming crap, that’s fully open along one side – like maybe a tornado ripped off the façade. It’s the first and only thing you see outside of the rusty fence, and it’s roughly the size of three two-car garages. It’s grotesque. The dog returns, and we’re forced to wait in our cars until his master calls him off.

The owner of the Mas, a nervous little man with hideous gray teeth and beady eyes, comes out to greet us. The second I step through the gate, I start to cry. This place is a complete disaster, the bastard step brother of what was advertised. In addition to the oversized shed of cowshit (which I realize is actually attached to the house), the rabid dog and the rusty fence, there’s a pool that hasn’t been cleaned since my 20’s and a gravel “lawn” scattered with weeds, dirt, plants in white plastic hanging baskets and mismatched lawn furniture. But the coup de gras is the house itself. What we thought was a restored 18th Century castle is a trainwreck of a house that is less than half finished. The part that was finished, and featured in advertisements, was fairly suitable. But attached to it, and clearly photoshopped out of the photo, was another enormous unfinished structure with broken out windows, plaster patches and dirty gray concrete. I can’t even put into words how terrible it was. You just have to trust me.

Laura and Steve smell my dissatisfaction and have plenty of their own. This place is exactly why renters need to see a property in person before committing to it. Thank God they were with me, because I don’t know what I would’ve done if I was alone with this creepy psychopath at his house of horrors. Laura saved the day. She picked up the phone and in under a minute had reserved the guest house back at Oppede for the week. We go in to find McCreepy, who’s no doubt polishing human heads in the basement, and tell him we’re dissatisfied with the condition of the property and that we won’t be staying. At first he’s surprised, then he’s clearly pissed. We’d given a 500€ deposit, which I handily sacrificed in exchange for getting the hell out of there as soon as I can. We decide we’re not even comfortable staying the night, and I expect to hear a gunshot behind me as I drive off. Before we leave, I decide to take a few photos for the diaries.

As we drive away we realize it’s 5 pm and we don’t have anywhere to stay, and it’s not like you can just pull up to a Best Western. Steve and Laura are in the car in front of me. Steve’s driving and Laura is online searching for a room. Every time she finds one that looks decent, she dials and puts Steve (the French speaker of the duo) on the phone to ask if they have any room. So he’s maneuvering the car on switchback turns while talking on French in a cell phone. At one point we decide to quit driving around and stay in one place, so Laura and the laptop settle in on a large boulder while she surfs. This defined the term Vagabond Gourmet.

We found a chambre d’hote (bed and breakfast) nearby. I crash on the sofabed, unable to sleep and afraid that Steve will pick tonight to sleepwalk au naturel again.