Myles Away: A Prelude in Avignon
After crossing the Atlantic with Norse Airways and arriving under a watercolor sky at Charles de Gaulle, I slipped out of the capital before it could swallow me whole. Instead, I boarded the TGV and watched the world soften - sunlit farmland, stone villages, vineyards in bloom. The train curved gently south, toward a quieter kind of grandeur: Avignon.
Palace of the Popes
The train pulled into the station just before noon, and Avignon welcomed me with the confident elegance of a city steeped in memory. I checked into Hotel de Cambis, a boutique jewel tucked within the historic center. With rich textiles, sculptural lighting, and thoughtful nods to local heritage, the space felt both grounded and elevated - a design-forward retreat that embraced its Provençal roots without cliché. It is the kind of hotel where one slows down without guilt. After weeks of cinematic frenzy preparing for Cannes, it was the perfect setting to pause - to be still before the storm.
View from suite at Hotel de Cambis
Avignon breathes differently. It’s a city built for reflection, yet never dull. Its history runs deep - shaped by sacred weight – as home to the Palais des Papes, that magnificent Gothic fortress where popes once ruled in exile. Wandering the cobbled streets at dusk, I found myself drawn to the faded grandeur of the ramparts, the limestone washed in gold by the setting sun. It felt like walking through a dream you half-remember from childhood - or a past life.
But behind the gothic silhouette and beneath the medieval stones, the city pulses with intimate charm and modern appetite.
Chapelle des Pénitents noirs
My guide to that appetite came in the form of a local restaurateur with a nose for the offbeat and the unforgettable. Together, we wandered into bistros tucked behind faded shutters, sipped natural wine at a buzzing stall inside Les Halles food market, and chased Provençal light from terrace to terrace. Each stop was a quiet act of reverence - for ingredients, for place, for pleasure.
Meandering streets in Avignon Old Town
Avignon offered more than beauty. It offered permission. In the quiet hum of the old streets, I began to shed the urgency of Los Angeles.
I lingered longer. Walked slower. Ate without apology. And somewhere between the scent of thyme in the air and the chill of rosé on my tongue, I found myself again - not as a filmmaker or a traveler, but simply as a person in the world.
This was not an ending or a beginning, but a prelude. A pause. A chance to remember what presence feels like - before the flashbulbs, the meetings, the madness of Cannes.
This was a breath between two chapters… this was Avignon. GR8T
Images courtesy of Myles Yaksich
