Living in Provence

Vaison-la-Romaine
November 2010

Seven years ago, I celebrated American Thanksgiving, together with my sister and two friends, in Vaison-la-Romaine -- a little town, not far from Avignon, in the heart of Provence, France. 

We had a wonderful week, living in a rented house across the road from a Roman amphitheater.  We wandered around the small and extremely picturesque town.  We hiked out into the adjacent countryside.  We drove to other towns in the area -- mainly to the north and east -- making day trips, wandering through markets and sampling small restaurants.

The month, of course, was November.  The weather was cloudy, cool, chilly at night.  The tourists were elsewhere -- we shared Vaison almost entirely with the Vaisonites (or whatever they call themselves).  We dropped into restaurants without reservations.  We were greeted cheerfully on the streets. 

I was with three companions who liked to cook.  They joyfully combed the local markets.  They prepared excellent dinners.  They served up roast turkey and the fixins' on the big day.  For my part, I distributed compliments liberally, and backed up my compliments by my eating.

At the time we were there, I had heard of Peter Mayle and his memoir A Year in Provence.  The book perhaps initiated the craze for settling in Provence -- a craze that appealed especially to his fellow Brits.  But what I didn't realize was that the town in which the Mayles lived -- Ménerbes -- was only about 40 miles south of Vaison.  Had I known, I think we would have paid it a day's visit -- just to get a feel for the place, despite Mayle's warning that the town itself was somewhat drab.

I've just reread A Year in Provence, and it was both a pleasure to read and somewhat disappointing.  Disappointing, because I couldn't duplicate the Mayles' experience -- even if I could afford to buy a house in Provence at today's prices -- and I probably wouldn't want to.  First off, the Mayles spoke -- despite his self-deprecatory disclaimers -- pretty decent French.  Decent enough so that they could socialize with the townspeople and supervise the many contractors who worked on their house during the year in question (in the late 1980s).  Second, the Mayles were extroverts, at least to the point that they loved getting to know all of the townspeople, and -- despite continuing complaints about inconveniences and delays -- the builders.  They threw parties, and attended parties thrown by others.

And third, much of the book is devoted to the local food and wine.  My sister and our friends might well have joined Mayle in his ecstasies over the many ways in which lamb can be prepared, and the joys in sipping wine from the various regions of France, or even the pleasures to be had in joining a local for a common glass of pastis or marc.  I enjoy eating, too, of course.   And drinking.  But I can't build my days around meals.  On the other hand, Mayle does persuade me that the food in tiny one-family Provençal restaurants is so good that even I might eventually evolve into a gourmand, like it or not.

In any event, as the above suggests, Mayle's book is a catalogue of the dangers and joys of renovating a house in Provence, and a catalogue of the pleasures of eating.  Both aspects of the book give him ample opportunity to introduce us to the many eccentric characters with whom he dealt, found himself surrounded, and ultimately befriended.  As he suggests, after they had sampled for a time the rich wine of life in Provence, life in England seemed weak beer indeed.  Hard to go back to, even for short visits.

Our visit to Vaison was devoted more to architecture and to seeking out nearby villages and their market places, and to appreciation of the region's landscape, both natural and agricultural.  We sampled good food, but we also cooked many meals for ourselves. Both my lack of ability in French and my introversion precluded much engagement with the local population -- certainly when we were there for no more than a week.  I would love to visit a welcoming American, a resident in the area, who had already broken the ice with the locals, and could allow me at least a peek into their lives.

Finally, if, like me, you know but little French -- be prepared to pick up little nuggets of conversational phrases as you read the book.  Mayle never translates these phrases that he throws off so casually, but their meaning is usually obvious from the context.  (And if not, there's always the internet!). 

And if none of this tempts you to read A Year in Provence, to seek it out as an entertaining and informative travel book, tant pis!  You can always try Paul Theroux instead.