Saint-Remy-de-Provence: Art or Spoiled?

Today I want to go to Saint-Remy-de-Provence, today I want a cultural program!
For days we've been lounging in the Alpilles, visiting small weekly markets, enjoying the blue sky and warm sun. But today I want to experience something.

No, no, no, Zappa laments this time!

This is a truly terrible tourist trap. They will rip us off, fleece us, plunder us, exploit us, trick us, take us apart like Christmas geese, pull the last pennies from our pockets, suck us dry, we will become as poor as church mice and depend on alms for the rest of our days.

No, no, no!

Pennies are no longer available, and besides, we need to shop anyway, and we could stop by the Office de Tourisme, which I dismiss with a wave of my hand.

So we set off and find enough space for our vehicle in the parking lot of the local stadium opposite the school. Under the watchful eyes of vigilant parent taxis, picking up their offspring for the lunch break, well protected from treacherous, dastardly car thieves.
A short stroll awakens our spirits.

However, upon arriving at the tourist office, we must realize that even in a well-frequented Provençal town, they do not refrain from the midday break, and we stand before closed doors.
So first, sightseeing.

Saint-Remy-de-Provence lies at the foot of the Alpilles, featuring the ruins of the city of Glanum, Nostradamus was born here, and above all, Van Gogh spent a year in the local psychiatric ward.

Retired German art teachers pilgrimage through the little town, paying homage to the master, who would surely be turning in his grave if he knew what was happening.
In the high-gloss-paved pedestrian zone, we can visit exclusive and trendy boutiques, elegant and upscale galleries and selected and first-class real estate agents.

Our attempt to drink a milk coffee in the noble rattan chairs of the hip bar in the marketplace fails due to the staff's disinterest; we probably look too shabby.
My hot desire for a small scoop of ice cream dies abruptly at the price of 3 euros.

Punctually at 14:00, we gain entry to the Office de tourisme, but the glossy brochures only inform us where we can eat stylishly, sleep stylishly, shop stylishly, and buy stylish real estate.
We receive no information for our unrefined preferences like hiking, nature, and adventure.

Richly disillusioned, we return to our caravan. The sixth graders curiously scrutinize us on their way to physical education while we enjoy our coffee in our own four walls.

Fortunately, we were able to defend ourselves against the cons, fraudsters, and tricksters and are not left poor, burned out, and helpless in the parking lot of the local school, depending on alms, as Zappa had Nostradamically predicted.
Everything turned out alright in the end.

Only the loss of the precious stamps that I managed to snag in the Tabac bar for the postcards for those left at home, which could almost be weighed in gold, will remain in our inconsolable memory of this gem of Provence.