In typical American fashion, we piled into the mid-range Suzuki the rental car agency upgraded us to, and barreled down the A7-direction Provence. It took about 7 hours from my door to that of the sickeningly charming bed & breakfast I'd reserved near Cavaillon. It was at our arrival when I realized that I was completely and utterly unprepared for this trip.
We'd bought the Michelin guide to Provence the day before, but lord knows I had no time to 'read' it (does anyone actually read a travel guide ? rather than look at the pictures, and try and remember the names of the decent restaurants ?)
Luckily, our boisterous b&b host came to the rescue. Seriously, this is the chattiest French woman I have ever met. After welcoming us, she informed us of where we would eat dinner, and basically decided the next day's itinerary.
No matter what we decided to do, we were simply not allowed to skip Oppède Le Vieux. Had I heard of this village ? I nodded. Of course I had. I did my research. Or not. But seriously, maybe it's a blessing that this place is hardly written about. When do you get to visit a formerly abandoned Provençal village, and manage to take dozens of photos without another tourist spoiling your view ?
We parked at the bottom of the village, and as is becoming customary on this particular visit, we marched up the mountainside.
We read on various scattered plaques of Oppède's history. How it's population grew to nearly 900, and was later on abandoned. How a group of artists hid in it's overgrown caverns during the second war. How in the last 20 years it has come back to life; been restored.
I imagined those artists hiding here. Knowing that no one would think of climbing this mountain in search of them.
Then I realized that this place reminded me of what I'd always thought the Lost Boys camp would be like. And how angry I was, little budding feminist, that there were no lost girls. Almost as angry as I was when my 2nd grade music teacher made all of the girls dress as pilgrims for our Thanksgiving play. The boys had the choice between pilgrims or indians. Who in their right mind would choose pilgrim?
What has struck me about the Luberon thus far, is the overwhelming quiet. Even when ambling through the more tourist-driven destinations, I can breathe the air.
There is no urgency here. Only light, and calm, and the unfulfilled desire for the day never to end.
Of course, this can't last. And we'll have to pile back into the car and barrel back up to Paris, where every day seems to be a fight.
But before we return to the sights and sounds of the city, let me show you more of the South.
Where there is nothing to do but drink carafes of rosé, and wander up old, hand-layed stairways, without knowing where they lead.
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