Tuscany was replete with popular tourist attractions: the Statue of David, the Ponte Vecchio, the Duomo, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The same could not be said of Provence; it had a unique appeal all its own. There was the scenic esplanade, the Promenade des Anglais, in Nice. Further west along the coast was the independent city-state of Monaco and its ritzy and glamorous Monte Carlo. A celebrity-filled film festival was held every year in neighboring Cannes.
When a traveler thought of France however, their mind usually gravitated toward the capital city, Paris. Provence, the southeastern region of France that touched the Mediterranean Sea, was hardly, if ever, on the radar. But there must have been something to this place. Why would Parisians and other Europeans from as far north as the United Kingdom have been going to this stretch of land and sea over the centuries? I could only hazard a guess.
Perhaps it started with the light. There was a certain quality to the sunlight in Provence; it somehow had the capacity to make everything it touched more vivid.
It was this same light that inspired the great French Impressionists like Claude Monet, Paul Cezanne, and the tormented soul, Vincent Van Gogh, to create their world famous masterpieces.
Aside from this illumination, the sunlight had other abilities. It could lift moods, especially for those who came from cold or dreary climates. Sunlight could also alter behavior: remaining in the shade when the sun was blazing overhead, slowing movements and effort to limit perspiration and fatigue, wearing light and airy free-flowing clothes. For some, this boost in well-being combined with the unhurried pace of life was reason enough long ago to resettle in Provence. The many old and quaint towns that we visited like Vence and Saint-Paul-de-Vence that dot the hillsides of this region was proof of that irresistible allure.
One spectacular hamlet that we had stumbled upon and that typified the Provencal lifestyle was Tourrettes-sur-Loup.
Situated on a hilltop, the picturesque cluster of stone-hewn homes and cobbled streets had an obstructed view of the far off Mediterranean to the south.
The narrow, quiet passages and compact doorways hinted to a time when life was less frenetic, more communal, and lived with more intention.
Even the neighborhood cat seemed to have picked up on this way of life.
As luck would have it, we had visited during the village’s weekly farmer’s market. The town square was abound with hand-crafted goods from the surrounding areas, the rustle of plastic bags being exchanged, and the aroma of delicious food. What was called artisanal and organic in the States, the residents considered run-of-the-mill ordinary.
How better to delve into our first foray into the Provencal life than a picnic lunch of olives, cheeses, and baguettes from the local boulangerie.
The half dozen varieties of olives and fresh baguettes we had purchased were easily dispatched. Unfortunately, we had made a very big stink by forgetting the cheeses in the trunk!
