Second resting place

My second resting place is Place Gabriel Péri, in front of the large Eglise St. Baudile. This area holds many memories for me because my mother, when she had to move from her apartment in the old central section of Nimes, the Ecusson, in 2011, she found a flat on the top floor of a 1970’s block on rue Séguier, one of the streets that leads off this square. She lived there until her death in 2019 and I visited her there at least twice a year during that time. When she arrived, the square had not undergone the huge refurbishment that saw parked cars replaced by a fountain, stone and wooden benches, pretty trees with mauve flowers that drop yellow cherry-like fruit, nor had the large Norman Foster building that faces the fountain been completed.

During her first year there, the crane that loomed over the Foster building site had bright lights on it, and rotated slowly in the wind, creating an eerie moonlight effect at night in her flat – I missed this when the crane was removed. You can hear the sounds of the fountain from the front balcony of the flat when the area is quiet, and from there you can see the ruins of Porte Auguste, one of the main Roman gateways into Nimes, part of the via Domitia.

The bookstore on the square is rather unusual. In addition to more standard fare, it offers a huge number of paperback titles of regional interest published by the owners. It also has a large selection of replica weapons and armour, dragon and fairy figurines, art supplies, greeting cards and commemorative medals. Up the stairs is what I can only describe as a enthusiastic amateur exhibit honouring French writer Alphonse Daudet, born in the house on nearby boulevard Gambetta where my yoga classes are held.

After viewing the exhibition herself, my mother repeatedly urged me to take a look. I finally did, one hot August afternoon, slightly startled to be confronted with a mannikin of Daudet seated at a replica of his desk in one of the rooms. I knew little about Daudet before visiting Nimes; I might have seen his name on several leather-bound books owned by my mother’s father that escaped being sold by the yard to an interior decorator by my grandmother.