I wish I could capture this part of France and bottle it. We stayed from Friday-Sunday at the Chateau de Berne, and on Monday we visited the kids' godparents in Vence, which is close to Nice, and took a stroll through St. Paul, which is a village founded as early as the 9th century. The thin cobbled streets were just wide enough for perhaps 4 people to fit across, and the medieval buildings were still magnificently intact, while dozens of art galleries call the lower levels home.
But Provence, ah Provence! The weather is warm without being suffocatingly hot, always breezy. The summer sun is always strong and the sweet shade is always comfortable. Air always fresh with olives and grape crops and love and easy living. Lots of hills. All picturesque drives.
Getting there, you drive over dozens of bridges hundreds of feet above ground, peeking into the windows of the towns built into the sides of huge hills. You race through dozens of tunnels that burrow through the little mountains and spit you out the other side to scope out another village in the valley far below.
The food is always so flavorful, yet light and filling. Always at least four courses. Many times fish. Always local. Always olives and wine. I wish I could eat this lamb and polenta that I had the first night for every meal. Or that turbot fillet. (I think I can do without more foie gras, though. I don't care if it's a "delicacy.")
Mmmm orange trees, macaroons, gold faucets, blazing colorless vibrant eyes on the pool boy, sumptuous streets in St. Paul, kisses from the little dog named Phillipe (what other name for a French pup?), oils and creams and smiles and aubergine and herbed butters and L'After Eights.
Delicious.
No comments:
Post a Comment