Prancing Through Provence
Running naked through lavender fields, drunken cartwheels across Châteauneuf du Pape and overdosing on fromage, rosè and tartare.
Gabri and I celebrated the end of the somewhat messy, highly dramatic opening chapter of our romance with a trip that was comprised half of Ibiza and half of Provence. It was a genius mix if you ask me. In Ibiza, we partied too hard, never saw the sun and acted in the hedonistic, irresponsible way the island calls for. We had a legendary time. And when it was over, we were shadows of our former selves in need of sleep, nourishment and an escape from the dance floor.
As we boarded the plane to Nice, we congratulated ourselves for the brilliance of our plan. What could be a better way to recover from hedonism than with gluttony? From a nocturnal existence to bed by nine? From illicit everything to copious amounts of perfectly legal wine, cheese and champagne?
Our roadtrip through the Provincial countryside was dreamy. Provence is truly all you imagine it to be with rolling fields of lavender, hilltop villages, olive groves and vineyards, all begging to be enjoyed fully and slowly. We started in Nice and made our way to Marseille, stopping in Saint Paul de Vence, Moustiers Sainte Marie, Saint Rémy de Provence, Rousillon, Gordes, L'Isle sur la Sorgue, Avignon, Arles, Les Baux de Provence and Cassis. It was a route I’d repeat, borrowed from a friend and I must say, well executed by us.
People in Provence, in keeping with my experiences in France, don’t reach the level of snobbery some might speak of but I did experience a sense that we were merely being tolerated as opposed to welcome and wanted. Maybe this is because I was with Gabri and there’s an inbuilt competition between the French and the Italians with regard to who hails from the best, most beautiful country. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been spoiled by an Italian brand of hospitality that bolsters the beauty and already inviting nature of Italy. There’s also the possibility that this wanted feeling is the result of Italian men’s collective eagerness to welcome American blondes under the misguided belief that we’re all easy. I’ve decided to turn a blind eye, ignoring this fallacy in order to enjoy the welcome. I suppose you could argue I enjoyed one such welcome so much that it resulted in marriage and three babies. Touché Italian men and your stereotypes, touché.
Whether or not the people of Provence wanted us, the vibrant lavenders fields and golden sandy gorges welcomed us into their embraces, unbothered by Gabri’s thick Italian accent and his American accomplice.
In Vence, we stayed at Auberge des Seigneurs which claims to be the oldest hotel restaurant in Vence, whatever that means. We visited the old town which was as charming as any and had an almond chocolate croissant that was worth every bit of butter and refined sugar. As a chocolate aficionado (I come from a lineage of addicts), I know a good chocolate combo when I see it. I ascribe to the belief that the marriage of chocolate to peanut butter is among the matches made in heaven. Were chocolate ever looking for a mistress though, the French allure of pate d'amande should not be dismissed.
In St. Paul du Vence, a darling and artsy little village about two miles from Vence that many a French poet called home once upon a time, we had dinner at La Colombe d'Or which is an unmissable experience. The town is worth a wander day or night but night had a romantic charm I’m not sure daylight could repeat. La Colombe d’Or’s history dates back to 1920. It was, at one time, the social center for free thinkers and artists and houses an art collection that adorns almost every inch of the property and has grown slowly over time. At the restaurant, you dine on quality typical French fare under fig trees and amazing art. Around the property, you can reach out and touch, say, a Picasso … just sitting there, unarmored and unassuming on the wall. But just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Those familiar with the fellow might imagine correctly that Gabri did (sorry Pablo). I, however, obediently feasted my eyes on the many masterpieces and tucked my Thomas Crown inclinations away.
Our next stop was Gorges du Verdon on the way to Moustiers Sainte Marie, one of the most beautiful little towns in France if you ask me. The Gorges du Verdon, as close as Europe gets to the Grand Canyon, was carved out by the Verdon River, and combines white-water rapids and cliffs for stunning panoramic views that make for a great way to spend the day. A great way to spend the evening is by dining near Moustiers Sainte Marie at Ferme Ste Cécile, an 18th century restored farm, two minutes from the village. Moustiers Sainte Marie itself, famous for its ceramics, is defined by limestone cliffs dramatically perched up on the village skyline. We found shelter at Bastide des Oliviers, a Bed & Breakfast owned by nice couple just outside of town and it was just fine.
The next morning, we rented kayaks at Lac St. Croix, an artificially created lake that the Gorges du Verdon feeds into. The Lac offers a great chance to swim, or relax along its perimeter, taking in the beautiful turquoise waters matched only by the lavender fields we’d later drive through en route to Valensole, part of Luberon’s lavender zone. The specific spots that were recommended to us were Manosque, Valensole and Apt. I’m sure all are equally as lovely but I was very content with our choice of Valensole.
A favorite moment: leaping naked through the lavender
If you’ve ever heard the name or seen a picture of Provence, it’s likely you know it’s home to among the most famous and expansive of lavender fields. The souvenirs you can pack away range from lavender-infused honey to lavender soaps. You can have lavender lattes and bathe in lavender baths. There’s really no end to how much purple there is on parade. Honestly, as someone who has always been made nauseous by the scent of floral perfume, I found myself needing to breathe some scentless air on occasion.
Intoxicated by all the lavender fumes, or maybe it was the rosè but who really can say, I found myself running naked through the fields. Something about the emptiness, beauty and vastness of the fields called for nudity. Or maybe it was because the seemingly infinite rows were so orderly that the child inside me felt the need to add some mischief to the scene. Or perhaps it was all Gabri’s idea and I’ve just convinced myself otherwise. Whatever it was or wasn’t, there’s photo evidence but on account of this being the internet and my not having the cojones for total exhibitionism, I’ll spare you. You're welcome Mommy.
Once we had our fill of purple, we drove on to St. Remy de Provence which became our base for some day trips to neighboring destinations. Saint Rémy de Provence rests at the foothills of the Alpilles, where Nostradamus was born and Van Gogh found inspiration. You can find the landscapes in Van Gogh’s paintings laid out in front of you just as they were for him over a century ago. Whether venturing out on a walking tour of the Van Gogh route or a visit to the Van Gogh museum, his spirit abounds. There’s also Monastère St-Paul-de-Mausolée, an asylum on the outskirts of town he admitted himself to in 1889 after the famed ear incident. I’ve always been captivated by Starry Night and have an artist father who fancies himself an only marginally more sane version of Van Gogh. So even though the town doesn’t offer all that much apart from all the Van Gogh, it’s a great place to base yourself. We stayed at Mas Valentine just outside of town which is a beautifully converted farm house with a great restaurant and lovely owner. If you’re looking to stay and dine elsewhere, Les Château des Alpilles is a divine option, chic and full of charm. The restaurant offers Mediterranean and Provencal flavors which can be enjoyed in the lounges of the Chateau or out on the pool terrace. And, I’m not sure how it escaped me but there’s apparently a legendary chocolatier, Joël Durand, you can find off the main square in St. Rémy. If you go, report back.
We visited Rousillon, a wondrous little town, home to the amazing Sentiers des Ochre. Its spectacular oranges, taken from the clay quarried from the town’s surroundings, will inspire the artist in anyone when burned into your memories of Provence alongside its endless purple fields. Apart from wandering through the ochre-pigmented setting, you can visit the Sénanques Abbey, built in the 12th century and home to lavender-harvesting, silent monks ever since.
Then there was Gordes where we spent some hours but didn’t stay the night. Had we decided to, friends recommend La Bastide which is rich in history with 18th century antiques adorning every angle. The village itself is set up high on the cliff, overlooking the surrounding countryside. We had a noteworthy quiche from Le Fournil de Mamie Jeanne. Friends recommended L’Orangerie, a beautiful bistrot we most certainly would have enjoyed had time permitted. It wasn’t until we were driving away from Gordes that we realized how very beautiful it is. I think that’s because its the sort of stunning hilltop town where you enter and almost immediately get lost in its maze of narrow streets. The town is known for two of my very favorite things: ice cream shops and spas. Both the Bastide de Gordes and the Hotel les Bories are great options to stay and spa for those sticking around in Gordes.
L'isle Sur La Sorgue offered great antiquing and streets marked by pretty old watermills. Sundays are when all the antique action tends to happen, mainly along the river. To eat, Le Jardin du Quai is a lovely spot, bright and elegant with a sweet garden, perfect for a leisurely lunch on a sunny day. Or, Le Vivier is another Michelin starred upscale restaurant with sophisticated cuisine and extensive wine list.
For every outfit, a flower or a field.
Provence doesn’t just harbor lavender. At every turn, for every outfit, we seemed to encounter a matching field. My hair proved a match for the hay. A rather loud and large hat I’d bought in a market made for a perfect sunflower field prop. It became a thing ... "where's Tyler?" in the fields of Provence.
On to a true highlight, Châteauneuf du Pape, a commune to the east of the Rhône and north of Avignon that harbors some of the best you can imbibe. There, we threw caution and sobriety to the wind to first enjoy the fantastic tasting offered by Caves St. Charles in its carefully restored 13th century cellars. For another unique experience, you can stay or simply dine at Chateau Des Fines Roches, a small castle outside of town. Reservation strongly suggested.
Another favorite moment: Cartwheeling across Châteauneuf-du-Pape ...
Have I mentioned I don’t drink much? I hold zero judgment whatsoever for those who do. I just have always been rather delicate when it comes to alcohol, often skipping the fun part and going directly to debilitating acid reflux. I know, I sound like an octogenarian. I’ve been afflicted with “the flux” for what feels like forever, my earliest case in memory being when I was ten years old. I wasn’t drinking at the time but fried food, alcohol, raw onion and pregnancy seem to be the culprits. So at this early life stage, I imagine it was food. More recently, pregnancy introduced me to new degrees of the f*cking flux.
It’s a rare occasion that I escape the flux but on one lovely afternoon at famed Châteauneuf du Pape, my physiology and the Provencal gods were watching over me, perhaps understanding that the experience wouldn’t be complete without enjoying a fair bit of what the winery had to offer. When in Provence, you simply must Pape (phonetically, Pop). So Pape we did. And the bubbles went fast to my brain and took me cartwheeling my way across the property’s lawn. And if memory serves correct, Gabri came along doing something resembling a handicapped crab's cartwheel which may have made me pee my pants a bit.
Avignon is a bigger city worth a visit and a stroll around the Palais du Pape, one of the largest and most impressive Gothic structures in Europe. Here, La Mirande is a culinary treat, housed in a 5 star hotel that’s a true landmark in the city. Or, if you’re looking for something a little more casual, L’Agape is a popular gastropub with chalkboard menus and Edison lightblubs in the center of the city.
From what I could tell, Arles is really only worth its market but if you’re a glutton like the likes of us, that’s reason enough as there were some seriously good local eats on offer. It’s in this town that Van Gogh famously cut off his ear after fighting with Gauguin. In all transparency, we got lost in gluttony in the market, leaving not much time for more (you can read more about that below). However, if you’re looking to add on to your Arles itinerary, you can eat at La Chassagnette which is (or was) the only organic restaurant in all of Europe to hold a Michelin star. Then maybe a visit to the Langlois bridge where Van Gogh painted his sunflowers. Or, if you aren’t Roman, you may be interested in wandering around the Roman amphitheater. In August, there’s a renowned photography exhibition, Les Rencontres D’Arles, that takes over the streets. But we try and avoid Europe in August so if you go, send me pics.
The cheesy, gluttonous, nearly fatal feast:
One morning, we found ourselves in the Arles market with cheese varieties too good to pass up. So rather than pass them by, we bought samples of them all. Gabri, despite being among the taller and skinner men you might meet, is an absolute fatty in his heart and soul. He is always thinking about food, maybe it’s just the inbuilt nature of being Italian. But also in keeping with what I’ve found to be more European than American, for him, everything requires its proper setting and accouterment. If you’re going to indulge in a feast of cheese in France, you must pair with honey, jam, a baguette and some rosè. And some steak tartare to boot. I will say, it beats chowing down on whatever’s leftover in the fridge in five seconds flat at the kitchen counter, likely without a plate. Who me? Yes.
Somehow, Gabri got his hands on a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice so we could port our cheese around with us on our day’s adventure before returning to the hotel for our feast. (Where there’s Gabri, there’s a way.) We finally made it back to order our tartare and rosè and went to town. It’s not just Gabri, I’m not shy about eating either. Despite growing up in Miami where it would be easy to develop an eating disorder given the otherworldly bodies that abound, I managed to escape my adolescence with just a minimal amount of body dysmorphia and insecurity. Neither of these afflictions hold a candle to my love of food so I’m a true partner in indulgence. Personally, I think life is often about balance and while I want to like what I see in the mirror as much as the next gal, I also want a Levain chocolate chip cookie to the face. And, when it comes to travel, it’s my opinion that food is unquestionably at the forefront of culture so to avoid it is to fail to fully know a place. So now that I’ve stated my theories on why gluttony is occasionally ok, I must confess that our Frenchie cheesy feast landed us both on the hotel floor, groaning and laughing in stomach pain and a bit of a buzz.
Le Baux en Provence is a nifty medieval town perched high up on a limestone hill. The July heat beat away a little at its charm but still, worth a stop. To eat, Le Baux Jus or La Cabro d’Or are great options. The former is more of a plant-based, familial experience in a cave and the latter is a little more fancy and gourmet.
Cassis, next to Marseille, is a Mediterranean fishing port known for pebbly beaches and its “calanques,” narrow inlets framed by steep, limestone cliffs. With pastel-colored buildings, sidewalk cafes, and cliffside trails, I could see the appeal as a nice escape from Marseille but the beaches were packed and the boat tour we took didn’t allow for a swim which we found baffling. If you’re looking to dine, Le Bistot de Nino is a favorite of locals on the west side of the harbor and makes a great spot for some obligatory bouillabaisse if you have the time.
In Marseille, our final stop, I found something other than France — a French city with very few French. This was a trend that has since grown into a reality. I think the contrast between the quaint, French-filled charming towns of Provence with what we found upon landing in Marseille left me a little dumbstruck. Today, I hear Provence described as a melting pot of African and European culture but then, I thought it was simply an extension of our very French adventure which left me confused. In any case, I found it to be an interesting, if not peculiar, city. We stayed at Mama Shelter, relatively simple and a 15 minute walk from the old port but clean and cool. Vieux Port (the old port), was really nothing special but we were pleasantly surprised by Le Panier up in the old part of city. This neighborhood harbors murals that adorn its narrow, hilly streets and has a cool hipster vibe that was most apparent on its main street, Rue de Panier. There, we spent unhurried time enjoying an aperitif before venturing into a cute boutique slightly down the hill. We took in the 360 degree panoramic view of the city from the Basilica Notre-Dame de la Garde, atop which sits the Virgin Mary watching over the entire town. To close out our stay in Marseille, we ventured to Chez Michel for some obligatory bouillabaisse, THE famous dish of Marseille and a specialty of this particular establishment. And with that, we bid adieu to Provence and said farewell to France.
Gabri and I are more of a fast travel kind of couple, packing into one day what others spread out over the course of a week. Provence calls for another kind of pace though, one that’s in line with the trending slow travel you often see poking through your Instagram feeds. And so, instinctively, we leisurely cartwheeled and pranced and ran naked through Provence at slow enough a pace to allow it to intoxicate our senses with lavender and loveliness at every turn. I look forward to returning with the littles. Just think of the little lavender outfit possibilities!
Know someone planning for Provence?
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