My preparation for Provence consisted of reading Peter Mayle’s book decades ago and overdosing on YouTube videos much more recently. I also have Julia Child’s memories somehow stuck in my head as I remember her vivid descriptions of her time here hosting dinner parties with famous foodies in her home, La Pitchoune. Needlessly over-romanticized in my mind, I have discovered a very different place now that I am here. One that is also vastly different than my recent experiences in the bustling cities of Paris or Lyon further north, or the medieval cities of Dijon or Annecy, with all of their charm and wonderful blend of the historical and modern.

The village of Lafare, where we are staying, is 119 people

Here, in the northwest of Provence, is a network of thousand-year-old stone villages hugging tightly to precipices in the mountains of the Dentelles de Montmirailles, the Montagne du Luberon, and the Plateau de Vaucluse all surrounding the towering Mount Ventoux. I say network because each of these communities—some with many thousands of people, and some with only a hundred or so—are interdependent. The Provençal people travel between them to visit each other, to be entertained, to be fed, or to conduct their commerce in the same way you might travel between neighborhoods in your city, only they use single lane roads. Most of them are only a few kilometers apart so it isn’t necessarily difficult to traverse.

Every village has a weekly outdoor market, of course, but if you are making a galette or a gateaux, and you need some eggs and butter, you can always head to your local supermarché. But if you need substantial groceries, or if you want selection, linens, or furniture, you’ll need to go to a larger town. The local doctors and pharmacies can help you with a stomach bug, but if you need tests or treatment, you’ll need to step it up to Carpentras, Orange, or Avignon. The people here know where the things are that they need and how to get them, even if not completely conveniently. They have made a trade for beauty, privacy, close-knit friendships, and timelessness.

Every village has a bakery, this one is Beaumes-des-Venise

In the fall and early winter, as it is at the time of this writing, the scenery between villages is stunning with rich golds, deep oranges, and vermillion reds complementing the verdant green of the grasses, the pine, and oak. Everywhere there are olive groves and vineyards. I mean everywhere. The persistent smell of burning fireplaces fill your nostrils reminding you that this is country. Paysan. The French version of the deep south. Church bells toll on the hour, day and night.

They are also blessed with an overabundance of saucisson, fromage, charcuterie, and especially great wine. I often wondered why the wines of the southern Rhône—Beaumes des Venise, Gigondas, Vacqueyras, Rasteau, Cairanne, Ventoux, and the other Côte du Rhônes—are so consistently good and yet so utterly affordable. Once I saw these areas for myself, it clicked. There are millions of vines here, thousands of vineyards, an absolute ocean of fermented grape juice floating hundreds of millions of bottles of wine out into the world. It’s kind of a shame because if these wines came from anywhere else in the world, they would be much more expensive given their high quality. Such is supply and demand, I suppose. I think the same goes for their abundance of amazing cheeses, especially the goat’s milk and sheep’s milk cheeses—creamy, rich, mild, and delicious. These local products are the output of the fields of animals, trees, and vines whizzing past your window in between the stone villages that dot the landscape.

The galet roulé (rolled pebbles) in Chateauneuf-du-Pape

The village of Sablet snuggled into the rocks

We’ve been here two weeks staying with our friends. We’ll be staying for a further month in a local village house we’ve just rented. We had originally reserved a house in Avignon, a large city about 40 minutes from here, but thanks to that network I described above, our friends made a call and for the same price we were able to get an amazing house in the local village (Lafare, France) and a rental car for the entire month. You’d be hard pressed to even find this house let alone know anyone who could rent it to you.

The two weeks in our friend’s villa was like country life boot camp. I am a city boy through and through, so learning how to live here has been an adjustment, but I am proud of how well I have done. I learned how to stack a delivery of firewood, wheelbarrow wood up a steep driveway to the house from the distant wood pile and keep a constantly maintained fire in two fireplaces. I drove trash and recycling to a local roadside center and separated everything into the proper bins. I walked food scraps down to the composting bin on the property. We learned when and how to open and close wood shutters called volets to hold in heat and protect from the fierce winds that whip down the valley here. I was given very detailed driving lessons and mastered the complicated but necessary turn signaling for entering and exiting the countless roundabouts that they love here in France. I can read the road signs. I now understand how the pharmacies work, and how to shop in the grocery stores. Oh? You think that’s easy? Ha. Did you bring your coin to unchain the shopping cart? Did you weigh your produce and use the machine for the bar code sticker, or did you give it to someone to do that before you checked out? Do you know the difference? Did you close your bag properly? Every place has its rules. First and foremost is to say Bonjour to anyone and everyone, and it’s three cheek kisses—bisous—here, not two.

This cultural education has been exactly the experiences I dreamed of when I set out to live like this. Instead of being on autopilot mindlessly getting through my repetitive days, I am constantly on high alert, building new synaptic connections in my old brain. And the rewards have been plentiful. I have been let behind the curtain to a significant degree. I have been introduced to people here, both expats and French, who have embraced me with warmth and curiosity. I have been to produce markets, met the local pizzaiolo, visited a local marché de Noel (Christmas market) in a tiny village, speaking there with the honey seller and the lady who owns the brocante market. I went with my friend to the Fête du vin (Wine harvest festival) in Beaumes-des-Venise. My friend knew so many of the vignerons and I was lucky enough to taste dozens of their tiny production wines. We are going to a popcorn social and a private wine tasting at another friend’s winery this week. Each of these were in a different village and all of this in just the past three weeks.

If you’re wondering about how well we are communicating, my three years of Duolingo have paid off, but my French is horrible. I know this because the faces I have seen looking back at me over the past six weeks have let me know that I am inflicting auditory pain on these poor people. But they have shown such grace and patience with me, some willing to correct me, which I thoroughly appreciate. Others switching to their broken English. The French are supposed to be rude, but I haven’t found any of those people yet. They have been universally wonderful to us. I am proud to report that I understand way more than I thought I would, and I speak enough French that I can get by day-to-day. Sometimes, it goes perfectly, as if I am fluent. Other times, I am a deer in the headlights staring back at them helplessly. The next step will be daily lessons at some point soon.

The pace of life here has been a welcome change, and I can feel my batteries recharging. The generosity shown to us by our friends, and their friends, has been a life experience that I will always hold deeply.

The villages here are built stone by stone into enduring structures that can stand the tests of time, and I find that to be an apt metaphor for the people, as well. To be let in, even a little, has been my prevision fantasy come to life. Every day I remind myself of where I stand, “You’re in France right now, and you just asked the lady behind the counter in French about the cheese, and she understood you.” It’s remarkable.

Village Life in Provence

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