Travel Stories >> Petersons in Provence

PETERSONS IN PROVENCE - A JOURNAL….APRIL 1996

Every year the Petersons take an Untour… the most incredible vacations you can imagine – run by Idyll Tours based in Media, PA (USA).  Idyll arranges the living arrangements and transportation, and get you to your destination, and then you do, see, and enjoy the rest!

Saturday, April 22 – Arrival, Isle Sur du Sorgue

The sunrises on the east–bound flights out of Dulles to most of Europe are always spectacular, like supernatural infinite prisms. The pilot announces we have just crossed into French airspace and they’ll be passing out the customs entry cards for the three of us on this Air France flight who are neither French nor EU citizens.

DeGaulle is a big airport, all stretched out but clean and relatively quiet. I wait by the Air Inter counter to see if I can catch an earlier flight to Marseille then the 1pm I’m scheduled on. Paris is cold and rainy (I have never been to Paris when it wasn’t) and I figure since I have to wait anyway, I’d rather do it in the Marseille airport where it might be sunny! I sit for an hour when they tell me I’m on! This Air Inter is sort of French "People’s Express", nice little planes and you don’t feel like a sardine! While waiting for my seat, I watched three separate single parents, 2 men and a woman, leave their respective little girls behind the counter. The good fellow behind the desk gave each girl a little sign on a string to wear around her neck that read, "unaccompanied child" and escorted them to a bench to wait. They all sat properly, swinging their little legs, looking a little apprehensive, but all like they’d done this before. They were each about 8 years old and darling, one with a matching hat and knapsack. They seemed to be French versions of child custody settlements, trading homes for the other parent.

So we get into Marseille airport, and as I suspect, my mother has guessed that I would try to get on an earlier flight and they are there with bells on to hug and greet me. They’ve had a great couple of first days; mom’s tearing up the roads like a French grand prix racer which makes my father suck wind, grab the seat, or say things like, "uh, I think that was our exit, dear. They are amazing, they have practically memorized the road maps, and they are already a trove of information. Our gite rural (country place) is just outside the town of L’Isle Sur du Sorgue. It is one of the mostly beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I think my mother has secretly planned all of this to make me change my mind, and fall in love with France. It may work.  

Isle Sur du Sorgue is situated at the bottom of a series of limestone hills. The great water run-off terminates in some five rivers running through and around town. It is like a mini French Venice – a series of narrow winding watery streets crossed by bridges at every turn. The area was, at one time, I read, a prime silk producing region and the rivers and roads are lined with mulberry trees (silk worm food) and the river are cut by grand water wheels, vertically rotating slowly as the water pours over their algae-covered paddles. The streets are lined with the classic mediterranean houses with carefully tended flower-filled windowboxes. Where streets intersect there are fountains.

The countryside where our "gite rural" is located seems so orderly. As my mother notes, "The French may not take their politics too seriously, but they take their agriculture VERY seriously." (Good priorities!) Flying into Marseille you could look down on the well-organized fields lined with cypress trees or other natural "fences".  Acre after acre of olive trees, blocks of tidy vineyards, rows of almond trees all in their order.  And the food in this world, mon dieu! Bread and cheese seemed to have been made minutes prior, the brined black olives – so garlic-y and salty. We walked along the streets looking in the windows and every type of produce we saw seems too beautiful to be real. Mom has stocked the kitchen in the gite and we take to cooking our own meals. The food is plentiful, inexpensive and wonderful and since eating out is outrageously expensive, ‘in’ is best!

The buildings are small, lightly painted, and although somewhat humble, they are beautiful. The window shutters are painted sweet muted tones that blend with the floral landscapes around them. The fabrics produced in the region are lovely, bright, primary bases (yellow, red, and blue) with wild brilliant decorative floral designs over them.

We walk the streets in the afternoon – absorbing where we are and how it feels. This land is old. Much like the "feel" of the Spanish countryside. It remains me of Monty Python scenes or the landscapes in old European movies. Perhaps it strikes me as gray and tired because I come from a new land. In the US, our trees, our streams, and the very greenness of our countryside seems so fresh and clean compared to these panoramas. Out at our gite, the large canvas parasol hovering over the table and the wrought iron chairs make the place feel like a live version of a Smith & Hawkins magazine ad. In fact, if I were to describe the whole general feel of the south of France I’d venture to say it’s all Smith & Hawkins – only here it’s authentic! Anyway, the land is old, but the faces are fresh. The French are not a bad looking people in general (not as beautiful as the Spanish, not as ugly as the Brits). The clothing and the haircuts are always very stylish. The children are exquisite – dressed in yupped-up Gap and Benetton outfits.

Sunday, April 23 – Avignon (sort of) and where could Lydia be?

Up early, it is cold and raining outside, but the shower is hot and lovely. I realize that I have packed for warmer weather than I am seeing so I expect to wish to burn the single sweater I have with me by the end of my ten days here. We slosh our way through the Sunday morning marche in Isle sur Sorgue and rain be damned it is a treat. It is full of produce, breads, chicken on rotisseries, plastic goods, fabrics, cheeses, and local acacia and lavender honeys. The townfolk are out en masse, all travelling on bicycle, covered in plastic (even the produce baskets).

We spend the afternoon travelling back and forth to the train station in Avignon to retrieve Lydia who, flying in from Boston through Montreal, was expected on the 1:44pm from Paris. After a warm drink and a little quick tourist run through Avignon, we are back in the station to discover that she is not on the 3:49pm either. We are becoming experts at covering every exit so as to catch her regardless of the corner of the train in which she might be hidden. After we see she is not on the 4:44pm, my mother, who is not a worrier by nature, makes a few phone calls to the Untour people (who have heard nothing) and the family travel agent (my aunt, who has also heard nothing). We are cold and tired and soaked to the bone and the consensus is to drive the half hour back to the gite, change clothes, grab a bite in our own cozy little kitchen, and swing back up to Avignon for the next Paris train due in at 7:00pm. As the Avignon-bound passengers emerge from the 7pm, we discover Lydia exiting a far coach. She tells us that her 8pm Air Canada flight (the night before) didn’t get off the ground until after midnight. We are just glad to finally have her in our midst. We are also glad not to have to spend any more time in the Avignon train station. Ever.

Monday, April 24 – Arles, Romans and fabric

Long day! You travel in April and you risk travelling in the rain – and it poured all day. Up early – out of our deliciously cozy beds, petit dejeuner of strawberries, croissants and great coffee (Dad does Mueslix and a parade of vitamins). The dynamic of our group changes with Lydia who is the medieval scholar and knows a great deal about the history of the region. Even just the internal strife with the early Catholics is extensive, popes fighting popes, mystics serving kings as political advisors. The French popes built great castles, one in Avignon called the, "Palais du Papes", is gargantuan. Curiously, the Jewish history in the region is quite extensive as well, synagogues in most cities, including our own little Isle sur Sorgue. In fact, during times of persecution, the Popes in Avignon protected Jews who had fled other southern European cities.

Anyway, today we are heading to Arles, the home for many years of both Vincent Van Gogh and Paul Gauguin. Any Van Gogh fan will tell you that much of his most well known works were painted in and around Arles. Besides the art history in Arles, it is also a city of Romans. On our route we stop in the little town of Chateaurenard (located on the banks of the Durance River) where we climbed any steps to the base of a 15^th century feudal castle. As with most ruins, only a partially complete foundation and two towers remain. It was here, the legend goes, that the feudal lord who controlled the area and who had fallen on hard times, sold his daughter’s soul to the devil. Nice folks, those medieval men.

Once we get to Arles and eat, it is off to the underground cryptoporticus, used in the 4^th century for grain storage, and during the Second World War as an air-raid shelter. Off to the Museum Arletan, described as Europe’s most fascinating collection of local ethnography, to find it closed (museums all over Europe are closed on Mondays). So down the cobblestoned streets to the Cloister of San Trophime – a lovely, peaceful, easy-to-take sanctuary, with some surprisingly well preserved 17^th century tapestries in the second floor rooms. Across the square from the cloister is a section of the townhall in which there is an exhibit about the restoration of the doors of San Trophime – a fascinating display of the reliefs, the carving, and the documented process of restoration.

We dash up the hill and around the corner to the Theater Ancien – the Roman theater – which was probably tremendous until the Christians wrecked it, mutilating the statues, and hauling off the marble to use in their own houses and public buildings. "So", says one Roman general to another, "How are the games going?" "Oh, you know, " replies the other, chin in hard, obviously bored, "the usual, Christians "0", Lions "13"." Ahhhh, the good ol’ days….

We go down to the center of town where the Arena or Amphitheater is, also Roman, also somewhat destroyed, but absolutely immense. Much of the structure is still standing… and we are told that the Arlesans have bullfights here (imported from you know where) on these enclosed grounds. We climb one of the towers and are astounded by the views of the entire city and the Rhone River (which has risen to near flood levels today).

The Arenes behind us, we trek precariously through the narrow streets of Arles. It is a chore to avoid being hit by the dangerously fast and sloppy drivers. I have read that more French die in their cars than in any other way. Have you seen all those reports about how the French have such rich diets and yet no one dies of heart attacks? That’s because they all die in car wrecks before any are old enough to have their damn cholesterol checked!

We make our wet way along the Rhone to the Reattu Museum, and tiny but delightful collection (not to mention the fact that it was nice to be somewhere warm and dry for a while). After Reattu we head to the ruins of the Roman baths. Lydia describes for us how the baths worked, how the water moved and what the different rooms contained. After a while, however, I find I burn out on the Romans. With so many ruins you have to do a lot of "imagining" here and there because the only actual visual left are lots of old stones overgrown with weeds, the higher crevices occupied by lots of pigeons. The baths today were my "stretching" point.

On our way back to the car we pass a fabric store and Mom and I hop in to see what we can find (to make curtains for my new dining room at home). The shopkeeper a delightful woman, and Mom with enough French, all together we managed to make ourselves known and I left with a beautiful bolt of fabric of, we were told, Alsacian origin (an area of northern France where Mom’s family had ancestors!).

Tuesday, April 25 – Vaisson la Romaine (didn’t get enough Romans in Arles?)

The French countryside as I’ve mentioned is so neat and orderly, the field in careful rows, even the houses are postcard perfect. The old farmhouses are made of stone, red tiles for roofs. Dad explains to us that in older times the farm families simply added an additional "house" to the existing structure for the newly weds (the next generation) so many of the older ones we see seem to stretch out like sectional worms! The wealth of each generation dictated the size of "their" addition so they look like this…

The roadsides are just bejeweled with bright red poppies, indigo irises, and small yellow and white wildflowers that are lovely especially in the overcast weather… The roads themselves are fairly perilous. On the rare occasion I am riding shotgun, I am always a little taken aback by the balls-y drivers of these tin can Renaults and Citroens who pass on the curves (and on two wheels) and squeeze back into the lane just as we pass in the opposing direction. I am equally taken aback by how nonplussed my mother, the driver, is by it all.

We arrive anywhere we are headed by consensus. My father with the big map in the front seat hollering, "Look for D-728", my sister and I in the backseat with lesser maps yelling "turn at the next intersection" or "follow the orange car", and my mother clutching the wheel urging, "I need a town name, not route numbers." (since the route numbers don’t begin to show up on signs until one is already actually on that road. Spain is the same, no thought in either country given to match the map road numbers with the actual road signs). But we manage to get where we’re going with few errors or turn arounds and no hot heads.

And my father sees a picture in every field and corner. He’d probably spend days looking for just the right shot, and he does make my mother stop and retrace routes every once in a while. We use to tease him a lot more than we do now because we have discovered that we really appreciate the photos later.

And the little jokes and sillinesses make my weep with laughter. In all of the reference books, dictionaries and French phrase books we have between us, there is no mention of the proper response to a sneeze. Salute in Italian, Salud in Spanish, etc… We know that sante means health in French, but there is no indication that this is the correct phrase. So my mother, pumping fuel into the VW Golf we have rented decides she likes how "gazole" (gas-oil) rolls off the tongue and every time one of us sneezes she grins and says, "gazole". ("It sounds like it should be right," chuckles Dad). I’m waiting for the checkout girl in the Intermarche to sneeze so my mother can contemplate the look of confusion on the girl’s face after my mother blurts out, "diesel-fuel" to her.

Back to the trip at hand… Before we get where we are headed, we come upon a delightful tiny town, barely mentioned in any guidebooks (the best kind of tiny town), called Malaucene. Built in the 14^th c. on top of an old Romanesque church, the ‘old town’ is a maze of minute winding narrow streets leading to the pinnacle at the top of a hill overlooking it all. Cold and gray and the winds whipping our cheeks raw, we climb to the top. This corner of France is known for it pottery and after our descent and a quick walk through town, we see an old wysteria covered building with the sign "Poterie d’Art" out front. We approach the front door and my father remarks that he is reminded of the Adam’s Family homestead. An artist to looks like I imagine a young Mark Twain might have looked, greets us. We delight over the ceramic treasures, purchase a few small things, and are then on our way once again in search of more ROMANS (of course).

We head north in the hopes of reaching Vaisson la Romaine, described as, "a small Provencal town which will enchant those who love old historical places (as opposed to ‘new’ historical places?). Rarely does a town offer such a complete and picturesque ensemble of vast fields of Roman ruins, Romanesque cathedral, cloisters, and a medieval district dominated by a castle." Ok, maybe I’m jaded, but frankly, the aforementioned describes much of what Europe has to offer the tourist - little towns with chunks of Roman, Visigothic, medieval, Christian, and other historical detrious.

V-la-R is set up better for tourist buses than Arles was (big parking lots, considerably more plastic kitsch for sale in the kiosks, and long pedestrian streets lined with innumerable souvenir shops). Everywhere we travel in Provence, the shops are full of the bright provencal cloth made into table cloths, napkins, backpacks, eyeglass cases, wallets, little dresses and skirts, pot-holder, and ad nauseum. Too loud for my taste, it is snatched up in bolts by the busloads of visitors.

I am unable to detail yet another full afternoon of Romans. Suffice it to say that these ruins were much better preserved than in Arles. The Celts and the Romans apparently got a long better in this area and so immediate destruction did not occur here. The Theater was so intact and impressive that I actually took a picture of it. They had a fine, if small, museum with a number of excellent artifacts in it.

"Ouveze" is the river that bisects Vaisson, one side is Roman and the other medieval. The medieval side sits atop a cliff overlooking the Ouveze River and the old castle that hovers on top seemed somewhat menacing – peering down on the city like Snoopy as a vulture over the edge of his doghouse roof. By the time we had finished the Maison du Messili, the Musee, the Maison de Dauphin, the Roman village, the Cloisters, and the Cathedral, I could do no more and sought refuge with an old New Yorker in the backseat of the VW while the rest finished up the medieval crags.

After the Romans, we were all too war-weary to cook and so it was decided to dine out on the banks of the Sorgue River in our little (adopted) home town. Noted as a decent place in the guidebooks, we dined at El Pescador. Although the food was good, the desserts were beyond description! My God, even my mother ordered a dessert. And of course, we passed them around so we could all share in the glory and the caloric ecstasy of each other’s choice. So American, so passe, and yet our waiter (like everyone we encounter) is sweet and manages to smile in amusement as we try to collectively make ourselves understood. I’m sure they all go home in the evenings and grin as they recount to their families, "this one family we had today, whew!" But they never make you feel ridiculous (we don’t need help on that).

Wednesday, April 26 – Pont du Gard, Tarascon, Les Baux, St. Remy

Heading southwest from our little gite this morning, I realize that for every neat thing we see there are ten we are missing – for such a little region in France, it sure is big.

First on the list is the impressive Pont du Gard ("Gard Bridge"), one of the most well-preserved roman (of course) aqueduct/bridges in existence today.  The day is cold and overcast but we get an occasional glimpse of blue sky. I am convinced that tomorrow (my last day. Already!?) is going to be gorgeous. Ah, the inequities of mother nature…

We do the usual consensus navigating and find the part of the Rhone over which this grand structure sits. It is, quite frankly, magnificent. They call it "one of the seven wonders of the Ancient world" built in 19bc. Damn, sure hope I look this stunning on my 2014^th birthday. Since the Romans were great engineers, and big on water systems and the quality of the water in those systems, this is not only an engineer’s delight, but an architect’s as well. The aqueduct spans the Gardon Valley – the Rhone River – and is made up of a series of colossal blocks. It is some 3,300 feet long and its height?

Well, let’s just say that while on the top I felt nearer to God.

A visitor could climb either river bank to the top and either brave the walk across the top (I considered it for a moment but my father shot me a look that said, "I’d really prefer you didn’t") or walk across through the trough (covered) just under the top. The trough which (after 2000 years) had a few open holes in the cover so you could pop your head and upper body up and out far enough to see the views and the people who had the guts in the stiff breeze to walk across the top!

So Dad and I walked the trough while Mom and Lydia (whose belly responds poorly to heights) waited on one side and played ‘sociology 101’ (or, "guess the nationality of the tourist before (s)he is within earshot.") The French are easy – they take their dogs on vacation with them. French dogs are generally nasty, yappy little things carried lovingly in the arms of their middle-aged owners. These owners feel propelled to attach fancy little clips to the dogs’ foreheads – with amusement I note I also use a clip like these to keep my hair up when I am washing my face. France is the land of wine and cheese, Romans and dogshit. Dogs. They are everywhere: restaurants, museums, ruins, the shops, everywhere. Most are non-descript, little and ratty-looking. On occasion you’ll see a breed you have heard of, but most resemble large vermin in both personality and appearance.

Just like people in Spain and France smoke everywhere (love the ones who wait until the elevator door closes and you begin to ascend before lighting the cigarette), the French bring their dogs everywhere. And no Frenchman worth his salt would actually scoop the pooch’s poop, "MAIS NON!!" Unfortunately for him, it seems my father is the one who manages to most frequently leave places dragging his foot – or splashing his sneaker in a puddle to remove whatever merde he’s backed into while shooting a picture. Yes, France is the land of dogshit.

I digress. We climb and walk and take pictures – the structure is breathtaking. It is hard to resist the urge to take lots of photos. I know that without a complicated camera – the great perspectives and depth of field will be lost in a photo. It is a wonderful stop, and even though I joke about going overboard on the Romans – this was great "live" history.

We head back to the car, and decide to lunch quickly at the café the near parking lot. We are the only customers after the 3 buses of elderly Germans leave and the 3 men behind the counter seem delighted to see us. A ham and cheese sandwich in France is a (two foot long) baguette filled with brie and class-A slices of ham (ha, no Oscar Meyer and cheese slices wrapped in plastic for THIS crowd!). Toward the end of our little picnic I notice my mother mumbling to herself which usually means she is working a French question over her tongue so it’ll come out right. She suddenly hops up from the table, walks over to the men at the counter and asks them what one should say when another sneezes. At the table my father whispers to us, "Wouldn’t it be funny if they said ‘gazole’?" This kills me. The young man tells her and she repeats it so as not to forget and she rejoins us. We walk back to the car all repeating the phrase and then begin discussing the subtle difference in sound between ‘bon jour’ and ‘bon journee’. Suddenly I look at mom and ask, "what was the sneeze word again?" Pause. "Damn," she says, "I forget." Laughter ensues.

We head south in the direction of Beaucaire and Tarascon – towns that sit across the Rhone from each other. Beaucaire is nothing for a tourist to see these days but has a fascinating history that is better read about. Tarascon, on the other hand, has both the fascinating history as well as the remains to prove it. Right up on the river bank in the center of Tarascon is a sizable, nicely intact, medieval castle. It was built in the 13^th c. and was home to the Anjou family (pear merchants? Just kidding) and to ‘Good King Rene’.

This wonderful fantasy building, although it sits aside the Rhone, still has its moat (drawbridge and all). Coming around the corner and seeing this is like walking onto the movie set of King Arthur and the Roundtable Knights. It is exceptionally well-preserved and the guidebooks call it the finest medieval structure in France.  We wandered through the banquet halls, vast kitchens, winding staircases in each tower leading to the roof, all the typical crenelations around the outside, extravagant living areas, imperial bedrooms, servant quarters, courtyards, gardens, and apartments. This building could have easily maintained a small community.  I could only imagine being a child in this place, so many places to hide and play. Once we climbed to the roof, we could see clearly why this was such a strategic location, the view was far-reaching.

Before medieval times, Tarascon was a large Roman trading center. The legend goes that there lived a hideous amphibious beast in the Rhine which periodically crawled ashore and ate children and cattle (great way to keep the kids in line – and away from the water!). At some point, good Sainte Martha came and tamed the beast. Apparently, even today, during festivals, the townfolk make a huge model of the beast (called "the Tarasque) with working jaws and tail, and they parade it through town. What fun! The church of Ste. Martha was a tour I begged out of and retreated to my New Yorkers in the backseat of the VW.

Leaving Tarascon quite satisfied with our two wonderful structures thus far, we made our way southeast in the direction of Arles again, this time to pay a visit to Les Baux (say: ‘lay-bow’). I read a bit about this place last night, but that was nothing compared to seeing it for real. Try to imagine this: a large rock ‘spur’ (like a mesa or butte in our own southwest) 3,000 feet long, 600 feet wide with vertical precipices along all the sides. On top, a fortified castle (ramparts and all) in ruins, some ancient houses, baths and the community buildings of the village of Les Baux (named for the bauxite found in the region). The legend here is that the Lords of Baux were renown in the Middle Ages.  Proud to trace their heritage back to the magi king, Balthazar, they put a star of David on their coat of arms. 

Yet another amazing city of old in ruins – as fascinating to walk through as any we’ve seen. So much to see, too – from fortress to baths, churches to living dwellings, a hospital and town center…and best of all, a 360 degree view of the world. We could identify Marseille (at how many kms away?!). No picture does this creature justice – impossible to put on film, the ink drawing in the Michelin guide gives a decent idea of the essence of this butte with the city on the top.

Thursday, April 27 – Fountaine de Vaucluse, Gordes, Roussillon…

After a delightful morning in the l’Isle Sur la Sorgue open air market (watching the women at the fish stand teasing the produce guy in the next stall, and ogling the honeys, herbs, and fresh fruit), we are off to the fountain (which is not really a fountain!). This is an amazing resurgent spring as the base (middle?) of the Vaucluse mountains north of the Luberon range (get out that Atlas). The guidebooks call it the most powerful resurgent spring in the world. One has written, "…the outlet of an important underground river fed by rainwater and draining through the Vaucluse Plateau pitted with numerous chasms, through which speleologists have searched in vain for the source [of the underground river]. Exploration began as early as the 19^th c. and continues today." Apparently even Jacques Cousteau failed in his attempts to locate the source.

The other story surrounding Fountaine de Vaucluse is that of the famous poet, Petrarch. It was here, apparently, that he lived for many years suffering the unrequited love of the famous, ‘Laura’, who supposedly inspired much of his work.

We walk up a small hill to view this spring-fountain. It is amazing to me, the freedom with which the tourists (anyone, really) can literally dip a toe in the water. In the States something like this would have been fenced in and they’d charge a hefty fee to look and see – forget getting near it. When my folks were here a week ago, the pool was very low, relatively empty. After a week of rain however, the water reached the level of the fig trees growing in the rocks above the cave mouth before racing over the rocks in a green fury of foamy waters. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. The water was so high that there was no cave visible. The eddies of water raced in almost flat circles and appeared to be churning magically out of the wall of rock. This is the water that we eventually see flowing over the big slow waterwheels in our own Isle Sur Sorgue.

On the walk down the hill we stopped to move through a papermill – for free. Run by a waterwheel on the bank of the Sorgue River, we could walk along and watch all the stages of the papermaking process. Funny how the traditional papermaking process doesn’t smell (or damage the environment) like today’s mills. Ever smelled a papermill? The chemicals would kill you.

We mosy our way through town and out to where we’d parked and got on the road to the town of Gordes. There isn’t much to Gordes: a renaissance chateau, a small but well-regarded modern art museum, but its location!! It’s spectacular! The town, or houses, of Gordes rise up in picturesque tiers about the Imergue Valley on the edge of a plateau. On the little road that hairpins up the mountain, about ˝ mile outside the city, there is a large rock platform, an outcropping, with no barrier (poor Lyd wouldn’t even get out of the car!) out onto which one could look out over the entire valley and the town set into the side of this mountain. It was breathtaking. 

We leave Gordes and wind our way through the valleys and the hills below the Vaucluse Plateau (north of the Luberon range) towards Roussillon. Throughout this region are scattered rock hut-like structures called, ‘bories’. Although used up through the 19^th c., their origin is a mystery. Apparently they are pre-Roman and while some are quite small, the larger ones look big enough for storage or even as a dwelling.

Roussillon, another corner of the provencal village world, wits on an unusual site on the highest hill between the Coulon River Valley and the Vaucluse Plateau. The striking thing about this hill is the color of the earth here. Some books would call it ochre – one says it contains 16 shades of orange/red/brick. The village of Roussillon is sweet, the buildings are all constructed of the earth and are a palate of reds. Against the crystal high blue skies today, they look strangely Southwestern (US). The views of the surrounding valleys were excellent and to the north we could see as far as Mont Ventoux.

We leave Roussillon and head for our little gite rural. Once we are there, I head into town to buy a few last minute gifts for friends. I wander into a little shop I’d seen earlier (full of porcelain and other finer gifts) and am lucky to find that the proprietor speaks Spanish (since I don’t have enough French to do more than order a meal). After I have made my purchases, I hurry home to find my parents and sister have already finished 2 bottles of wine and are three most happy fellas!

After dinner, I pack up for my early morning flight tomorrow from Marseille to Paris. How sad! I will so miss this great adventure we are having, and there is still so much to see! Perhaps we will be lucky and be able to return someday to this little piece of good living on earth. Peter Malle was no dummy, regardless of what he wrote about the trials and tribulations of living in the Luberon Valley, Provence is a beautiful, historical, artistic, yummy region of the world.

Copyright © 1996 by Rachel Peterson

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