You Say Cigale, I Say Cicada
For the next two months, I’ll be pretend I'm in Aix-en-Provence.
Instead of listening to the deafening onslaught of the 17-year cyclical biblical plague, I’ll be wandering through fields of lavender, shaded from the sun by olive trees, sipping rosé, surrounded by jumbo pottery versions hanging on the façades of houses.
Here’s the legend of how the cicada became the noisy spokes bug of provençal culture and France’s lucky charm.
“Angels descended from the sky and arrived in Provence in midsummer, in blazing heat. They were astonished to see abandoned fields and not a soul in sight. They went to visit the local priest, who was enjoying a siesta. They woke him up and asked him why everything was deserted. The priest explained that it was so hot that people couldn’t work out in the fields during the day and went to sleep in the shade while the sun was beating down. The angels went back up to heaven and explained the situation to God, who sent down a little creature with golden wings to sing at the top of its voice in summer and prevent workers from dozing off instead of working!”
I’ve read they’re a good source of protein too.