Èze and...the Donkeys?



Eze Village in Provence

Turn back the clock and transport yourself to the Middle Ages by visiting one of France’s fortified castle villages. Steeped in violent history, these villages will not only amaze you, but could render one speechless. As you wander the village's narrow streets, which in many spots are wide enough for only a few people, you might find yourself talking a little more quietly. 

On a sunny, summer’s day, with Mom and husband in tow, I explored one of these medieval villages. It’s called Èze.

a typical street in Eze Village

I first saw Èze on the Travel Channel back in the US. Samantha Brown was wandering around Provence. Ooo, an excuse to stop cleaning! I sat down and watched the show. Man, what a job she has.

She said she was in Èze. Èze? I’d never heard of it. While watching, I googled it and read that its first residents dated back to 220 B.C. and that it was given the name Èze in the 11th century. Prior to the 1700s it ‘changed hands’ many times through various feuds and wars.

I wondered if today artifacts were still being discovered when breaking ground for a new home. Èze is located in Provence. Knowing that we’d soon be moving to Provence, I put it at the top of my list of “Places I Gotta See”.

To say that Èze is a little hard to find is like saying my cat’s not that fat. Èze is a needle in a haystack and…our cat’s a major porker. Rising up 2,300 feet above sea level, Èze Village is perched on the edge of a cliff like an eagle’s nest. And if you don’t have a car (like me), getting there can be an adventure in itself. But with a little patience and a lot of espressos we made the trip…via bus, train and then bus again. Jacked up on too many espressos, we bounced out of that last bus! Tourists…the locals must love us as much as they hate us.

There are 3 parts to Èze. You have Èze-sur-Mer that sits at the water’s edge. This is where the train pulls in. Then at the very top, our destination, is Èze Village. In between the two is the town of Èze. Google it. It’s amazing. On a clear day one can see from Italy to St. Tropez, and turn around and say OMG to the awesome Alps that seem close enough to touch.

The bus that took us up 2,300 feet was a ride as enjoyable as anything else. It took us through the pitch black darkness of tunnels carved into mountains, and gave us blindingly bright, beautiful views of the azure méditerranée. Once we reached the ascending, winding, impossible roads of the foothills, the bus downshifted and I got butterflies. Shouldn’t we be in a hummer or something? Can this bus seriously do these roads? I looked at my Mom who had never stopped filming. I was so happy that she was seeing this.

As the bus grunted through each climbing twist and turn we were rewarded with stunning panoramic views. I kept looking up wondering where the village was. Looking down was a tad more scary. Unconsciously my body leaned toward the mountain and away from the edge. It sort of just drops off! No joke. Veer off the road a little and tumble a thousand feet. I hoped that the bus driver was also jacked up on espressos. That and that the brakes were in good shape for the descent at the end of the day.

Suddenly, there is was on the next mountain. Èze Village is perched on a peak that looks uninhabitable. (See first picture) It really is an eagle’s nest. I looked at my husband and BEAMED. Standing at the base of the village and looking up, I was completely fascinated. The view of it all brought my mother to tears. Èze really is that breathtaking.

We stopped to pet a lazy village kitty that was smiling in the sunlight and began our climb up the first of many ancient staircases which led us into a maze of cobblestone streets where the bougainvilleas competed in volume and brightness. With the ground rising up about a meter for every three steps, I thought who the heck needs an elliptical machine when you live here? I wondered how people got around. I mean, really. These were hardly forgiving streets. Miss a step on the way down and you’re headed for a month in a cast.



Nani and Nina, retired Bagagistes

 Then we saw the donkeys. That’s right, donkeys! Up until the 1960s all of the residents of Èze Village had a donkey. They were used to carry heavy items and deliver tasks. These cute creatures were even employed for manual labor, like the two I was standing there staring at (with a goofy grin on my face). Cool as a cucumber and chewing on some hay, they posed for pictures. These two donkeys, named Nani and Nina, are retired employees of l’Hôtel Château Èza. Nani and Nina were porters – they carried luggage! I’m not even kidding.




a charming boutique

  As we explored and discovered hidden art galleries, quaint jewelry boutiques and souvenir shops I thought again about the donkeys. If every resident used to own a donkey, where did they keep these furry hee-hawnkers? And then I noticed the wildly abstract shapes of the shops. Some shops were just big enough for la vendeuse, and maybe 2 customers. Don’t forget to duck as you go in. Some shops had one tiny glassless window and some had none at all. Some shops looked as though they were carved out by a giant ice cream scoop while others were simply dug in a hurry. They all looked like they’d house about one or two donkeys. “So this is where they kept their donkeys!!” I said. My travel buddies didn’t seem phased by my totally cool discovery. These shops probably arrived when the tourists did, which was probably at the time when the donkeys were phased out.

view from atop Eze Village

After taking a long lunch at a quiet outdoor table, we made our way to the top of Èze. There we discovered the remains of an 800 year old castle and saw what was left of the fortress walls which were built in 220 B.C. This was all destroyed by Louis XIV during the Spanish Succession. What a shame. To bring beauty back to this area, an enormous botanical garden was built among the remains of the fortress. The garden was much larger than any of us expected. Manicured paths led us on a tour of hundreds of cactus, some as tall as 20 feet, agave, lavender, aloes and more. The garden is also decorated by elegant, tall white sculptures of Déesses de Terre, Earth Goddesses, with plaques next to each of them, revealing their thoughts. Next to one named Margot it said, “Suivez-moi, jeune home et vous connaitrez tous mes secrets…ou presque” - which means: follow me young man and you shall know all my secrets…or almost. Typically not much of a fan of cactus, I walked around just amazed. The three of us agreed that this was a very impressive garden. I noticed the floodlights and thought how beautiful it must be at night...and how much cooler. Temperatures in this exotic oasis must have reached 100!

My 65-year-old mother sat on a piece of the castle and raised her arm in triumph in making it to the top. You did it Mum! Then we got lucky and found a mister. We gave the lever a yank and stood under a cool mist that showered down upon us. That felt good and got us ready for our long descent.



row of plots at a French cemetery

On our way down from the top of Èze Village we explored the old church and cemetery. We donated a euro into a slot in the church wall, lit a candle, and prayed to the saints for a loved one. Then we showed Mom a French cemetery. She had never seen one like this. In France, there is a large stone slab resembling the shape and size of a casket that sits on the individual’s plot. Under that, and normally underground, is the body. In addition to the headstone which sits atop this giant slab (many are quite beautiful), you will also see photos, flowers, and candles placed there by the family. I never liked how in the US you can simply walk on top of cemetery plots. Outdoor movies, funerals, walking the dog – none of it, à mon avis, should take place while standing or sitting directly on the graves of the dead. It’s disrespectful.

Continuing down toward the base of Èze Village, everyone had to step aside for a bride and groom, who were heading up!! With her dress in both hands she looked like a giant melting cream puff. But they were a beautiful sight – even though she said, “My next wedding’s going to be on a flat surface!!!” We all laughed, except for the groom. Ouch! Later we heard the church bells ringing.

enchanting hotel entrance

Èze Village has one 4-star hôtel (see pic) that has 3 restaurants, plus other more affordable hotels, and a nice selection of restaurants and cafés. Make sure your SD card has plenty of room on it, because in addition to Nani and Nina, the donkeys en retraite, you’ll see unbeatable views as well as plenty of charming, stone townhouses. And of course, wear blister-proof shoes. Èze is absolutely one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. It’s been checked off the list but I’d definitely go back for a visit!



Watch Your Step!!

We’ve all done it by accident. Oh Crap, we say. We check the bottom of our shoes, swear (using the word which is the name of the stuff we stepped in), and try to find a patch of grass or other tool to get it off.

Not stepping in dog poop is an acquired skill every French person learns through years of practice. As an American, I seem to be without this skill. They don’t even seem to be looking down at the sidewalk, unlike me, who’s looking down as much as I am up! Safely traversing the pavement is an art and an exercise of one’s subconscious. To be on a sidewalk and remain poo-free means your eyes must briefly scan downwards taking in the next 10ish feet of pavement. Having mapped your route, you stride along in moderate confidence until the process repeats.

France is a beautiful country. The architecture, the mountains, the medieval villages, the fields of sunflowers, the markets, the cafés…just don’t forget to look down as much as you look up, because just as you’re saying, “Oh it’s SO pretty here!”...click... all of a sudden you step and slide on a mushy turd as you snap your photo. Oh crap. And just when you think it couldn’t get any worse you realize that you’re wearing flip flops. Le ew.

scooping Le Poo

I’ve noticed that in general, the folks in France aren't pooper scoopers. And if you see one doing it there’s a good chance it’s an expat or a tourist who brought their dog along.

There are about 200,000 dogs in Paris alone and those fur balls produce 16 tons of the brown stuff daily!! If you’re caught not disposing of the dog poop you can receive a fine – I’ve read anywhere from 183 euros up to over 400 euros. Does the size of the steaming pile reflect the size of the ticket? I’m told the fines are rarely enforced leaving not much incentive to clean up after your dog. Maybe people here are too posh to squat and scoop the poop? Can you really see a lady in a fur coat in the 16th arrondissement of Paris bending down to bag it up?

Some neighborhoods encourage you to pick up after your dog by posting signs like “J’aime Mon Quartier, Je Ramasse” (“I like my neighborhood, I pick up my dog poop”).

Dog turd infested pavements create obstacle courses only the observant and agile can navigate. Forget about it if you’re pulling a grocery cart, walking with a cane, pushing a stroller or in a wheelchair. Often you’ll see the evidence of merde victims: a large brown skid mark followed by a pattern of diminishing patches. This is not just a Parisian problem, but one that seems to plague France as a whole. It’s funny though – the same neighbor of mine who will complain about having just stepped in crap here in our residence (and I’m being nice by saying ‘complain’ – ‘temper tantrum’ is more like it) is the same man who lets his own Yorkie make little brown deposits anywhere he’d like! I’ve never seen this neighbor scoop the poop. I've been told by the locals that, “Stepping in zee poo wiz your left foot eez good luck.” I think that’s some good luck I’ll pass on.

In the fall when leaves lay on the ground you have to be careful here not to walk on the leaves for fear of what lies beneath!! Maybe you romantically kick the leaves about, or like me; you like to step on a nice, crispy one. Only I don’t get the satisfying crunch but a smoosh instead. You pray it's just mud.

adorable little bugger

There must be millions of Yorkies here. They seem to be the little dog of choice! They are pretty darn cute. These little dogs don’t donate large piles of crap that you can see from a mile away but rather small nuggets, or what I call tootsie rolls (sorry, for any tootsie roll lovers out there) making their poop that much harder to see. Nobody likes to make a tiny pancake out of a Yorkie nugget. And don’t underestimate the small stuff – small dog poop smells just as bad! 

French dogs wear scarves!

It's good to be a dog in France. Here, dogs are allowed in grocery stores, shops, restaurants, cafés, trains, buses and just about everywhere else. The French love their dogs. And I think it's great that the pups get to go everywhere. But please, owners, keep a plastic bag in your pocket and pick up the poo!

Happy trails.