A Rose For Sara

The South of France holds a special kind of magic that only areas along the jewel that is the Mediterranean can hold. After traveling around the major cities of Provence, I decided to drive a little farther, indulging my desire for the countryside. The dry, craggy hillsides and medieval villages gave way to lush vineyards and golden Van Gogh plains, which then led to the low-lying marshlands and salt flats of Camargue. Wild piebald ponies roamed serenely amid the tall marsh grasses.

When I arrived at the tip of a peninsula, I found myself in the village of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, where I was greeted by an incredible number of RVs, campers, and tents pitched alongside the roads. Colorful cinderblock motels, like those found in old beach towns in the U.S., filled the outskirts of the village, with a large, central parking lot taking up residence within. This was no St. Tropez! This kitschy beach town was more my speed.

The town, I discovered, was named after the Marys--Mary Salome, Mary Jacobe, and Mary Magdalene--who escaped persecution and landed on Camargue’s shore after the death of Jesus. They were accompanied by Sara, a dark-skinned servant, whom the gypsies have venerated as their saint, and in whose honor an annual pilgrimage and festival is held every May. There is a huge, white cathedral where a statue of St. Sara is housed.

The gypsy culture was evident, especially when I stumbled upon a bullfight that was in full swing. I watched in awe as the spectacularly agile bullfighters (razeteurs) danced their way around the massive, charging beasts inside the arena. To my relief, these bulls were not killed. The razeteurs compete against one another to see how many ribbons they can untie from the bulls’ horns while being charged!

Enthusiasm within the arena escalated when one of the bulls charged after a leaping razeteur, through a barrier and into the first row of spectators. The thrill was palpable amid gasps and cheers. The closing ceremony included a parade of women, children, and cowboys in traditional costumes, bearing red roses and ribbons for the winning razeteur.

The spirit and vitality of the town throbbed within me as I listened to music playing and celebratory toasts being made. Had I planned ahead, I would have arrived in Camargue much earlier in the day. A visit to the cathedral during hours of operation would have provided a chance to see St. Sara, and perhaps leave her a red rose of her own.