London, France and Golden Underpants

Le Mas Tourteron, Gordes

I have to admit that I only put the word "underpants" in my title so more males would read my blog. But also true is that I just returned from a vacation in France, and almost every time I heard "France" in my head, I thought of the Adam Sandler line from Bedtime Stories: "I see London, I see France, I see my golden underpants." Yes, I'm a seven-year-old sometimes. Who isn't?

Ah, but I digress. I really wanted to tell you about my wonderful vacance en Provence.  About les vins and fromages, charmant  villages, grande amitie...it was incroyable!

And the bees! Where there are lavender plants, there are bees! I am one of those people who is at risk of, um, expiring if I am stung and don't get help in minutes, so I was packin' a double holster of EpiPens the entire time. My friends knew that if a stinger met its mark, the drill was that I would shoot from the hip (or rather, into the hip) while they called for an ambulance. (Hmmm - it's the same in English and French. Duh, maybe because it's a French word to begin with. Yeah, I know, who cares? Get back to the story.)

This was a dream vacation, in many ways. I worked a wee bit, but not the entire time, for one. (Unfortunately, most of my previous vacations included answering lots of emails and finishing projects, and often postponing the day's plans—which my fellow vacationers really, really loved about me.) But that was before, and this is the new me!

We had amazing greenery and scenery in front of us every day (including lots of the aforementioned lavender...and Van Gogh-worthy sunflowers!); we walked on cobblestone streets in towns that blended the old with the new in a seamless, eclectic mix of color and accents and wonderful sounds and smells; visited the Palais du Papes in Avignon; enjoyed amazing cuisine like that at Le Mas Tourteron in Gordes; had a fantastic day touring and tasting at three Rhone vineyards; learned to say "pas de probleme" about every small glitch in our plans and paddled contentedly in the small sparkling pool right outside the door of our Provence cottage. We had happy hour every day (that started earlier and earlier as the week unfolded), with regional wines—focusing on Provence's trademark dry rosé—and great local crusty breads and luscious cheeses and fresh-picked fruit; and talked and laughed and slowed the clock down enough to think about our wishes for that distant someday. (It's easier to find clarity about what we want to do when we grow up by stepping off the hamster wheel now and then.)

Quelle surprise—not a bit of it had anything to do with golden underpants, but you never know what your future holds, n'est-ce pas?


P.S.: Il convient que ce blog est publié le jour de la Bastille!


© 2014 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie