Two Weeks In Provence

  

Think of bright blue skies, wispy curls of white clouds, a blinding white sun, all while residing in an historic castle with beautiful women, and placidly enjoying two weeks of never having a zero blood alcohol level.  I did what I could to give my liver a rest, but when the corks start popping, I’m akin to one of Ivan Pavlov’s slobbering canines.

I know you don’t believe me about the constantly sunny, blue skies.  Or the beautiful women of the castle.  Don’t blame you, especially you poor souls stuck in Cleveland or Rapid City, South Dakota. I say, sit and suffer, or pack your bags.

The natives weren’t bad either. A lot of women around the world envy their French sisters.  Slim, slinky, piercing your American soul with a single glance, saying Zis and Zat, with pouty lips.  Age?  Doesn’t really matter.  I saw 75 year old French women who could lead me home by the nose…I mean of course if I weren’t married, or if my wife weren’t watching.  French women are ever and always aware of their bodies.  Even when they smooth their skirt, shivers race down your spine and you suddenly need to chew your nails.

Ok, ok, let’s meander back toward the wonders of southern France.  What comes to mind?  You better say rolling countryside with endless stripes of green vineyards, stunted sliver leaved olive trees, tiny stone villages crawling with vined flowers, old ceramic tiled roofs, and sprawling cites like the ancient seaport of Marseille and the walled city of Avignon, sidewalk cafés that are meant for artists and writers, philosophers and spirited flaunters of convention.  This is artist country, once roamed by originals like van Gogh, and Cézanne.  Just glance in any direction and you’re looking through their eyes and seeing the colors they saw.  Golden, wind swept fields, silver-green leaves and twisted bark of ancient olive trees, blackened nights with a spray of stars, cafés that spread to the streets and swirl with conversation.

Olive Trees

 

Old Harbor, Marseille

Buy espadrilles at any market.

Did I embrace this sunny life of wonders?  Whadda ya think?  Complete with espadrilles on my feet and a Gallic sneer on my lips, I bonjour-ed my way from town to happy town and adventure to adventure.

You’re buying all this, certainement!  Bien sûr!

Well, other than enjoying the weather, ogling, and popping corks, did I do anything? Mais, oui!  There were wonderful town markets, strolls down cobblestoned streets, visits to a huge chocolate factory, a winery tour, an ochre mine, a stroll through the Saint-Paul Asylum in Saint-Rémy, where van Gogh spent some time refreshing and painting, Roman aqueducts and bridges, to name only a few.  Restaurants?  Oh, my goodness!  Simple, but heavenly palaces of edible delights.

Our Chocolate Chef and teacher at Chocolaterie Castelain

Endless casks at Chateau La Nerthe

van Gogh's bedroom at the Saint Paul Asylum

But, you know, with me, it’s always the people I meet that mean the most and offer the most indelible memories.  The smiles and conversations, not only with the natives, but also with the diverse fellow travelers whose lives I brush through.  After all, most travel is about people.  The famous and infamous, the towering geniuses, the footsteps of conquers, but most of all, the kind and happy words and touches and grins of satisfaction that warm us and unite us with the rest of humanity.  Of course, there’s a chance it was just the wine.

Provence is like that.  A paradise of sunny days, sunny dispositions, and shared pleasures.  With a glass held high, I offer this French toast that says it all:  A votre santé!  Cheers!