Greetings From Provence

It is many people’s dream to live in Provence. Ah, the land of sun, perched villages, poetic landscapes, olive trees, lavender and magnificent pink-cast sunsets. For centuries, this part of the world has been home to a multitude of artists and others who moved here for the dramatic beauty of the region.

I was one of those who bought into the dream by buying a house in Provence. I find that living here (rather than just visiting) requires substantial life-style adjustments. ‘Type A’ personalities are forced to change gears, whether or not that is their preference. “Immediately shift into low and sometimes, hummmm, reverse may be the only way to avoid heart palpitations,” would be my advice.

Unlike Paris, here you cannot be in a rush. Forget about shopping and doing errands in a few minutes. There is no act that doesn’t merit discussion, and patience is the name of the game. Or else one is perceived to be mal elève (rude).

In Provence, one does not just dash into the librarie (bookstore and newsstand), throw down money and run. Even if one has been there just a day earlier, one is obliged to exchange a few words with the vendeuse (sales woman). The wait is complicated by the inevitable line of people trying to buy Loto (lotto) cards in the hopes of striking it rich that week. And forget it if someone is buying half of the store: you still wait patiently and with a smile!

You also wait patiently for workmen to appear. If they have had an emergency call, don’t expect them to call to postpone your appointment. Tomorrow will be just as good. When the workman does show, don’t wait for an apology. Be satisfied that he is a competent workman and be prepared to have a pot (drink) with him at the end of the work day. Do expect to meet workers’ children and wives. Provencal towns are very democratic, which is one of their charms.

For example, my dancing partner prefere at all village celebrations is the postman, who doubles as our handyman. But let me assure you, I have to wait my turn, since he’s the best dancer around.

New residents notice that people greet each other with three kisses on the cheek. (In Paris, two are quite enough). This — bien sûr — is in social situations. When you go to the garage or hardware store, a handshake will suffice. But be prepared to discuss the strange sound in your car or the best type of potting soil for a minimum of 22 minutes. Gardening discussions require even longer and, yes, some area gardeners do plant according to phases of the moon and have been doing so for centuries.

When it comes to language, one has to be deaf not to know that Provençale French is not “normal” French except to area residents, who think that Parisians speak “funny”. There seem to be ever so many more vowels in each word, and it usually ends with a twang. The easy explanation is that Provencale is French with Italian inflections.

Often I have trouble making myself clear, in spite of the fact that I long ago mastered ordering a verre de vin (glass of wine). What I have now learned to say is a verra de vingg. When it come to the necessities of life, one quickly learns to accommodate to any required dialect. But no matter how good an imitation I think I am doing, I will always be La Americainne.

In a café (bar) you rarely see the people who work the vineyards (the area’s number #1 economic resource) drinking wine. Pastis (a licorice-tasting high-proof alcohol) is the regional drink. Be prepared to hear a debate as to which brand of Pastis is best, and don’t even fantasize that one will ever convince another that your brand has more merit than his!

Another subject always up for discussion is the weather. If there is mistral, a northerly wind that blows down the Rhone Valley, it makes me feel like I am living in the arctic without the snow. During the winter, I’ve wanted to pack my bags and head for the first train. During summer months, the mistral can be a blessing on killer-hot days. Attention: it gets hot in Provence, and no one has air conditioning at home.

People who frequent the bars, and most natives do since the town’s bars serve as a social center, don’t wait for what Americans consider to be the standard cocktail hour. None of the old sun-over-the-yardarm bit. Initially, I was surprised but have adapted to this tradition and will indulge in a bierra (beer) at noon after making a pilgrimage through the Tuesday open-air market.

When living in Provence, it is essential to go to the weekly market even if your fridge is stocked so full that you could not squeeze another round of chèvre (goat cheese) into it. And no matter what calculations you make, there is always room.

The open-air market is not only a place to buy (and not necessarily the least expensive because, alas, super markets are springing up like mushrooms) but also the not-to-be-missed social event of the week. I would guess that half the local residents eat chicken for lunch on market days since there are at least 1,000 chickens turning golden on the spits of the roasting trucks.

After buying everything they need, and possibly some things they don’t need (after all, how can you pass up a basket of locally grown strawberries at bargain-basement prices?), people meet in their preferred café to make contact with neighbors and set up dates to get together.

One thing to get used to when living in this part of the world is that the telephone is perceived as an instrument of the devil. Why call when one can do something in person? People show no compunction about ringing the doorbell to just say cou-cou (hello). I will not regale you with stories about the times I have been caught off-guard. No matter what one is doing, or how important, one never turns away a visitor.

I have been known to entertain people with soaking wet hair, and in various forms of dress and undress. Sometimes I frantically look at my watch hoping that the guests will get the hint that I am on deadline or involved in some mundane reality of life. When suggesting that “this might not be a perfect time” (and one hesitates to be so blunt) the response is “this is Provence. Your work can wait.” So out comes the Pastis!

Yes, this is a life which demands slowing down. One needs a mentor, and mine is our housekeeper who shows up to work looking dressed for a ladies’ tea. Suzanne has been my guide into Provence, and often my savior. Her husband has introduced me to boules and obtained tickets for the Christmas Eve mass, and without the two of them I would feel lost. They have introduced me to other foreigners (estrangierrrres, in Provançale dialect) since they want me to feel at home.

I could not be more appreciative of having such nice friends and neighbors, but I know that we are different from each other. Each time I say that I going on a trip (and that includes Paris) or to someplace I have been yearning to visit, the response is “ma pauvre Karen.” I have learned now to keep quiet about plans to go to Asia because it is simply trop exotique! Their view is, “Why leave paradise?”

Many Bonjour Paris readers have visited Provence. What were your impressions? We would like to hear whether or not you think that living in Provence is that different from living in small-town USA?

Karen Fawcett

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