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Pure Provence

Before you begin this entry there are a couple of requirements:

First put a copy of Carla Bruni's cd in the player adjusting the volume to a comfortable 4 or so. If you don't have Carla Bruni's cd, you should, and you won't regret it when you do. So do go get it.

What am I talking to a wall?! Stop reading and GO!

Welcome back. Now pour yourself a subtle drink of choice. If possible pull that uncomfortable computer chair out and slide in something a little more comfy. Bean bags, couch, whatever--this one's up to you. Finally, turn down the lights, tuck in the kids and light a couple candles.
...let's begin.

Everyone I have spoken with concerning Europe who had some knowledge of the continent and an opinion I could trust, they all, every one of them, sighed when at the mention of the Provence. Lavender fields. Country cottages. Hills clothed in time-tested vineyards.

Pastel paints. Sun touched yellows, oranges, and pinks coat the houses topped with the same uniformed salmon tiled roofs. Each window is fitted with colorful wooden or metal shutters that only stick out once you've realized their charm.

From the moment I began planning this trip, when I let my mind wander the many sights I would see and adventures I would see, my mind would always finish in the Provence. A beach. A small quaint hill. Local cheese, baguette, a bottle of not-cheap but inexpensive wine.

Today, I can die. Yes it's true, I have never married. No kids. Never cured any diseases. I've only had one real job. One real girlfriend. But, my friends, I have lived a full life. In just three days, I have lived a full life.

Spain was good. Sun, beach, churros, paella. But in the past three days I have sat on the steps of a French/Roman coliseum 2000 years old under the same stars that shone the very night it was built. I have watched the moon rise over a castle crouching over the Rhone, good enough for a Pope to call home. I have wandered the narrow, shutter lined, cobble stone allies of Arles and Avignon. I have walked the streets of Van Gough, deciding the only thing that could have mad ol' Crazy V crazy is the inability to process such a precious Provence.

And today... Today after a quick walk through the country of Monaco, I sat on a pebble-lined mediterranean beach, with a fresh baguette, a wheel of camembert cheese, and a bottle of Provencial wine. I sat with jazz playing in the distance and sail boats bobbing in the sea and I watched the day fade into night. Today, I lived...

posted by Travelin' D @ 4:25 PM