Wise Woman Travel

Villefranche-sur-Mer, France

If you want to park near the beach in Villefranche-sur-mer, you have two choices. At the top end of the beach strip, near the expensive waterfront restaurants, is the shaded but small cruiseship parking lot. The far end offers at least triple the number of spots, but the parking is mostly cliffside, just off the road, exposed to the searing heat.

That’s where we’re headed, among a jostle of beachgoers, human and vehicular. A sleek black Mercedes lunges at us, its driver tossing Lorne an exasperated glance as we creep past. Posses of young men ramble on and off the sidewalk. Male couples in Panamas, white linen shirts, and Gucci sandals walk Yorkshire terriers. Worried looking mothers in cloth hats with wilted brims push strollers and try to keep toddlers from stepping into the road. Sunburned seniors, with cameras draped around their necks, juggle beachbags and sandmats. A young woman in a red bikini saunters down the middle of the road, her attention averted towards one of the cafes. She looks back at us, tossing her hair, neither startled nor altering her path.

Leaving the Peugeot to bake in the 34 degree afternoon, we begin the trek back along the shore to the town centre. Some people are just spreading out their beach towels. Those who have already found a place in the sand have positioned their bodies to receive maximum exposure, from the sun and anyone else who wants to look. Their skin is mahogany and cherry wood and bleached birch. Some women are topless, their breasts pert or pendulous. A teenager lies face down on her boyfriend’s back. A few people, usually those with small children, are sitting under umbrellas. Swimming doesn’t seem to be a high priority activity.

Where the sand gives way to large rocks, we cross the street to look at lunch menus – mussels and frites, salade Nicoise, croque monsieur, crepes sucres. We choose a table in the shade and a tapas selection. A greying African man offers us vinyl belts, purses, and beads. Shuttle boats bring cruise ship passengers to shore for a train trip to Nice or an afternoon of shopping. A tourist market has sprung up near the village fountain to offer a convenient selection of lavendar soap, Provencal linens, and half price sandals.

After lunch, we discover a steep, stone staircase, broad enough that a restaurant or two and a few shops have set up along its margins. We go into one, and I say “Bonjour” to the saleswoman. She says, “Oh! Vous parlez Francais!” and reaches out as though to rest her hand on my arm. She doesn’t actually make contact – French people whose jobs involve serving tourists usually keep a polite distance – but the gesture touches me. I tell her we are from Canada, and speak only a little French. She brings me a marketing basket, and says, “Vous avez arriver en bateau?” assuming I’m a cruise ship passenger. I tell her we came by car. “En voiture?” she says, her eyes widening a little. “C’est un aventure!” I say that, yes, it has been, and mentally thank her for the reminder.

When we leave the shop, we climb more stairs and find a cobbled passageway intersecting the main stairwell. Not far along it we’re aware of a calm that is absent from the beachside and its tourist conveniences. There are fewer people, and more French voices. The tall stone buildings provide shelter from the midday dazzle. The restaurant menus, on outdoor chalkboards, offer more interesting choices and considerably cheaper prices than their waterfront cousins. We find a boulangerie and a green grocer, almost Carombian in style. We shop at both, and decide to return to our newly discovered neighborhood for dinner.

That evening, sitting in the twilight of a candlelit courtyard, we’re treated to a sound we haven’t heard since we left Caromb – the church bell tolling 9 o’clock. Little by little, Villefranche is revealing her Provencal charms. We just have to look a little more closely to find them.

Villefranche-sur-Mer, France

My first waking thought involves my back. I roll over, and it feels not too bad, in spite of the hide-a-bed mattress. My next thought is, if I were in Caromb right now, I’d be listening for the church bell, getting up to buy baguette, and wishing petite Jeannette a good second day of grade 1.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about morning ruminations, it’s that they don’t get any lighter by lying in bed. My valiant chauffeur is still asleep. The kitchen may be small, but it does have a door I can close while I make myself breakfast. And eating poolside would be a treat.

When I emerge into the warm, quiet day, I begin to understand why people would want to buy even a morsel of VIllefranche property to wake up to this view. A gleaming,4 deck cruise ship is steaming towards the harbour. A few small vessels are bustling around, leaving sail-shaped wakes in the placid water. Traffic is starting to move in the town centre.
One floor below me, the apartment manager is energetically mopping the terrazzo stairs. Down on the approach road, the apartment complex’s maintenance truck, its box full of pruned cedar branches, is inching past our Peugeot. I hold my breath. No shrieking metal. Good parking job, Lorne.

The only place where there is no movement is on the cliffs above me. I can’t see anyone sitting under any of the villa awnings. Who lives up there? I’ve read that Tina Turner has a property here and, over in Nice, Elton John and Sean Connery are neighbors.

Drinking in this view deserves another cup of coffee. With some difficulty, I find the precise position for my key in the apartment door and hear the deadbolt thud out of the way. The door remains firm. I rotate the key one more time. Another thud, no entry. I try a counter-clockwise approach. Nothing. Lorne’s drowsy voice comes from the other side of the door. ” It’s a security feature, Pam. You have to turn the key two times, and then just a little bit more.” I try this – twice- and finally call apologetically for Lorne’s assistance.

After a lesson on the delicate art of unlocking our door, and Lorne’s assurance that he was just about to get up anyway, I head back to the pool. Leaning on the far railing offers the best view, so I….

“BWEE-EEP! BWEE-EEP! BWEE-EEP!”

Mon Dieu, what I have done now? I look over my shoulder at a discreet, knee-high post that says, “Avertissement! Alarme puissante!” I wait for irritated residents to appear on their balconies, shaking their fists or brandishing firearms. When no one does, I skulk back to the apartment, which, mercifully, Lorne has kept unlocked.

“Wanna get out of here for a while and explore the town?” he says.

The Peugeot has stayed cool overnight in the shade of a cedar. I climb in, grateful to escape our highstrung apartment complex.

“Ok, this is weird. I wonder if the battery’s shot.” Lorne is trying to turn the ignition key, but nothing is happening, and the steering wheel is locked. He reefs on it, we reef on it together. No movement. The owner’s manual is in French. We troop back up to the apartment, and Lorne calls Eurocar Rentals, who say they’ll send a towtruck right away.

The driver doesn’t speak much English. He slides behind the wheel and turns it with the gentlest of movements. Et voila, the Peugeot relaxes, we breathe out, and our day in VIllefranche can begin.

Villefranche-sur-Mer, France

“Uh, oh,” says Lorne. “I think I might have missed the turnoff into Villefranche-sur-Mer.” We both watch the GPS street image change,and listen for the BBC-calm tones of our impeccable onboard navigator to tell us what to do next.

“If possible, make a U-turn. Then, drive 400 metres and take the first left.”

With no signage to announce its arrival, Villefranche materializes in the afternoon haze. White yachts with sharp-boned prows gleam among quiet sailboats in the harbor.Complexes of hotels, apartments, and private villas scramble along sandstone cliffs, jockeying for position among cacti, cedar columns, and bougainvillea.

We climb up, up, still up on hairpin turned, paved goat tracks, until we see a discreet bronze address plaque on a stone wall, 171 Cactus Roc. We edge off the road and five minutes later, Virginie, our apartment’s property manager, zooms up in her Citroen.

“You have not been waiting long?” she calls, leaning through the passenger window to shake hands. “Bien! The apartemente does not have its own parking, but maybe you will be lucky and the guest space will be free. If not, you will need to park tonight on the roadside.Follow me, please.”

The security gates drift open, and we power up the approach drive and into a shaded breezeway. Virginie unfolds from her vehicle, young, tanned, tall. and takes off her Jackie O sunglasses, hanging them by one arm from the V of her low-cut white T-shirt. The three of us cram into a miniscule elevator, go up two floors, and Virginie unlocks the door to the apartment.

We look around the living room, white and sand with a lavendar couch, while Virginie points out features . We wait behind her to see the rest of the space. She opens two other doors, one beside the other, to reveal a closet-sized kitchen and a tiny bathroom.

“Et voila, that is the appartemente,” Virginie says, stepping brightly into our silence. ” A small closet is outside for your valises. The owners have left a booklet of instructions for you. Here are your linens and towels.” She hands me a bulging beachbag.”You want something else, you e-mail me.”

The door closes. We look at each other, and back at the lavendar couch, realizing that it must also be our bed. We can hardly take two steps in any direction before we’re stumbling into a piece of furniture, one of our bags, or each other.

“I think this was a mistake,” Lorne says. “I had no idea the apartment was this small when I booked it.” I remembered Lorne forwarding me the listing when he found it, and if the property’s square footage had ever been mentioned, it had escaped me as well.

I mostly unpack my stuff into the empty linens bag. We put my suitcase, one of the three kitchen chairs, and an oversized beanbag footrest into the storage closet. Lorne finds the internet connection and looks up the village centre. It is a kilometre away, back down the steep approach road. We realize we will need to drive to the village, unless we want to face the walk back up in the sultry heat. But if we drive, we might lose our parking spot.

The fatigue of the three hour drive from Caromb makes the decision for us. In the village. we join a tangle of cars searching for beachside parking, lumbering public buses,and motor scooters shooting through any gap that appears. We park near a small grocery store, buy coffee, bread, and cheese for breakfast, and flop down at the first restaurant we find. My seafood pizza is topped with canned shrimp, oysters, and calamari. I eat half and don’t ask for a doggie bag.

Back at the apartment, we find an interloper has claimed our parking spot. Lorne pulls the Peugeot in tight to the retaining wall outside the complex. We pass the pool, and hear a couple standing waist deep in a quietly vicious argument. As we make up the hide-a-bed. I don’t comment on the flimsy, three-inch thick mattress.

“We’ll get this figured out, you know?” Lorne says, as he props up his elbow on a folded-over quilt. He is asleep minutes later. I listen to the air-conditioner, and wonder if any hotels in the village might have empty rooms before I too drift away from the day’s disappointments.

Caromb, France

Today is the first day of school in Caromb. A father and son pause outside the elementary school, both trying to smooth down the boy’s cowlick (the boy eventually puts up the hood on his jacket – problem solved.) More parent-child pairs and groups join the parade, kids toting new backpacks and waving to their friends, stylishly dressed mothers greeting each other with three kisses. One woman in a burka herds her son in front of her. Among the procession are Ian and Axelle, the owners of our apartment, and their daughter Jeannette, her eyes bright with grade 1 anticipation.

Tomorrow is the beginning of a new leg on our journey too, as we move house to the Cote D’Azur. We’ll spend today revisiting Caromb’s Tuesday market, doing laundry, checking out a few shops whose locations and opening hours eluded us. We’ll ramble the town to capture a few more of our memories in photographs. I’ve always thought it’s too bad that no one has yet invented an olfactograph, or an audiograph, or an emotograph – these would breathe life into our 2-D photos.

Until this Harry Potter-style technology gets developed, here are a boulangiere’s dozen sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings that will linger with me after I leave Caromb:

1) The church bell and the town clock tower tolling. As long as you only require updates on the hour and half hour, and only between 7 a.m. and 6 p.m., you don’t need to wear a watch.
2) Children’s voices echoing up to our apartment from the narrow passageways between the stone residences. I can’t remember the last time I heard children in Canada playing hide and go seek. From time to time, a teenage boy treated us to a heartfelt French pop song.
3) Bread aroma wafting from les boulangeries/patisseries. There are two of them in Caromb to serve a population of 3000 people. This is a town that has its priorities straight.
4) Tomatoes, peaches, melons, and figs, hours from the vine.

5) Town fountains gurgling. We frequently see Carombians filling up their water containers from the gargoyle mouths. Last night on our way to buy dinner groceries, a boy on his bicycle stopped by for a quick slurp before pedalling away.
6) Doing nothing but looking and chatting. Two men sit on a bench at the town roundabout, watching other people’s busyness. In the evening, seniors gather on front steps, and kitchen chairs, and large stones to solve the town’s problems.
7) Sunshine, sunshine, sunshine.
8) Rosemary tumbling over a stone wall. I brushed by a plant on a stairway one morning, and snitched a piece for our omelette. Yum.
9) A dove’s drowsy cu-coo-coo, cu-coo-coo.
10) Ian and Axelle’s warmth, hospitality, and artistic spirit. “This house chose us,” Axelle told me. They are continuing the tradition that has seen the rambling old property offer refuge to hospital patients, French resistance fighters, and travellers for more than 500 years.
11) Tranquility. At night, and often during the day, it’s so quiet you can hear a mouse **** (this description stolen from Peter Mayle’s book A Year in Provence).
12) The peachy gold light of early morning and evening
13) Falling asleep as the evening breeze descends Mount Ventoux, whisking away the day’s heat.

Adieu, Caromb. Je t’aime.

Caromb, France

This morning, the Caromb village centre is busier than we have seen it since we arrived a week ago – cars dashing up and down the narrow streets, women darting purposefully in and out of shops with marketing baskets. Some of the merchants are a little less patient than usual with us when we take too long to make a selection, or when we puzzle over the number of French coins to hand over for our purchase. However, in spite of their urgency to serve the next customer, they wish us “Bon Dimanche,” in place of the “Bonne journee” that we have heard from Monday to Saturday.

There’s no doubt that Sunday is a special day in Provence. In Caromb, as in many other French villages, the shops will be closed up tight by 12:30 p.m. Sunday lunch is a time for a relaxed family meal, and the afternoon is devoted to other leisurely pursuits – touring the countryside by car, bicycle or foot, or simply lounging in the shade. So, when in France….

After breakfast at our apartment – an omelette for Lorne; yogurt and white peaches for me;baguette with lavendar-essenced honey for us both – we drive a few kilometres to a 12th century chateau in Le Barroux. It provides stunning views of the surrounding countryside, the red-tiled houses and vineyards shimmering in the heat. The chateau has undergone several renovations to repair the effects of marauder attacks, the most recent when the Germans set fire to it in 1944. We wander the stone-shaded rooms, which display well-preserved antiquities next to modern day sketches and paintings available for purchase. When we arrive back at the entrance, we find the iron gate locked from the inside and the elderly ticket seller nowhere to be found. A couple peers in at us and asks how long we’ve been imprisoned. They locate a buzzer on the outer wall, and soon we hear the rustle of the returning gatekeeper, more than a little embarrassed to have kept us waiting. Perhaps she was only trying to enjoy a little of her own Sunday relaxation.

After our release, we drive a winding road to Suzette, a Rick Steves-recommended town, but like Caromb, all is locked and barred. We head instead to Malaucene, where one of the Mount Ventoux ascents begins. It is bustling with an afternoon flea market,groups of cyclists weaving through traffic, and people lunching under umbrellas. I find a menu that features aioli Provencal, a dish that has so far eluded me in our gastronomic adventures. Aioli is a heavily garlicked mayonnaise, and becomes the featured dip for the chef’s choice of accompaniments. My plate arrives with tiny roasted potatoes, eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, hard-boiled egg halves, prawns, and swordfish. Accompanied by a glass of sangria, it is the best lunch I’ve had since we arrived.

By the time we get back to the Peugeot, the temperature has climbed to 30 degrees, and a hot wind is tossing the trees. As we have been at the end of every tour day, we are grateful to open up the massive wood and iron front door of La Vieil Hopital, and step into the cool stone courtyard, peacefully shady and green with potted plants. Axelle, co-owner of the house, is in the workshop off the courtyard, practising for this month’s music jam which she and her partner Ian will host on Friday evening. Her ethereal voice and electric guitar,both flavored with East Indian tones, follow us up the stairs to our apartment. We open all the doors and shutters and try to read, but the afternoon heat soon makes napping the only reasonable activity.

Et alors, I wish you “Bon Dimanche.” I hope that your own day is one of good food, connecting with family and friends, and the most leisurely of Sunday activities.

Caromb, France

If your life mosaic contains an intense conviction, a grand passion, a huge love, you may have a personal mecca in mind – a destination where you can indulge in peak experiences that typify your passion, and meet others who share it. For years afterward, you’ll be able to think back on your journey and relive your delight . “I did it!” you’ll sigh to yourself and anyone else who will listen.

For serious road cyclists, Mount Ventoux (literally “Mount Windy”) is such a mecca. Winding 1912 metres out of the Rhone Valley, its white head in the clouds, Ventoux beckons cyclists from all over the world to try their legs and their luck at ascending it. If you want to be a member of the Mount Ventoux Cingles Club (which translates as “Club Crazy”), you can sign up to ascend Mount Ventoux via three separate routes – all in one day.

For Lorne, a highlight of our trip to Provence was to have become a proud inductee into Club Crazy. Unfortunately, two weeks before our departure, he was involved in a cycling crash, fracturing his collarbone and ribs, and breaking his elbow so severely that it required surgery. One of the first things that Lorne said when I visited him in the hospital after the operation was that the orthopaedic surgeon had suggested we delay our trip to Provence. ” ‘I told him, ‘No way,’ ” Lorne mumbled, through the lingering haze of his anaesthetic.

And so our ascent of Mount Ventoux would still happen, just from the confines of our rental Peugeot. Luckily, Lorne’s arm was removed from its cast before we left Canada, and he now releases it from the sling during the day, so at least he can get behind the wheel and pilot us up the mountain. The pavement is painted with still-visible remnants of encouragement messages for the Tour de France riders who made the ascent only a few weeks ago. We pass scores of cyclists – tanned, lean, intense, in peacock-bright singlets and wrap-around shades. Not all of them are young or male, and a surprising percentage are sans helmets. The highway is no wider than any other secondary road in France, characterized by switchbacks, blind corners, and few shoulders. With both vehicles and bicycles ascending and descending, Lorne has to remain alert behind the wheel, especially nearing the top where some cyclists are wobbling with fatigue.

Somehow, we all manage to avoid colliding with each other, and we reach the summit. Professional and amateur photographers are snapping celebratory pics, and cyclists are congratulating each other with handshakes, backslaps, and kudos in a dozen different languages.Our own celebration is more low key. We drink in the spectacular views of the Alps. I take a photo of Lorne for his Facebook page. At the gift shop, Lorne looks at the Mount Ventoux singlets.Ultimately,he decides to delay buying one until he can wear it as a part of his own future peak cycling experience.

Caromb, France

Think back to the last wine tour you took. If you’re like us, you probably stopped at a handful of wineries, enjoyed a few complimentary (or not) slurps of wine, talked to a more or less knowledgeable wine server, and left with a bottle or two for your cellar. Someone in the party no doubt was unable to enjoy the tour as much as the others, blood alcohol and driving being incompatible partners.

Lorne decided to circumvent these problems before we left Canada by booking us a full day tour of Rhone wineries with Wine Safari , a one-man business featuring the talents of Mike Rijken, whose skills as a chef, wine importer, and luxury hotel food and beverage manager have taken him around Europe. After he picked us up at our apartment and loaded us into his van, we discovered to our delight that we were his only clients that day and would receive a private tour. Cool.

As we drove along a country road with vineyards on either side, our wine education began. Mike filled us up with information about the history of wine in France, including the industry’s geological, meteorological, cultural, and religious facets. Our first stop was at the ruins of the 12th century summer house that earned Chateauneuf du Pape its name. We marvelled in spectacular views of the Rhone Valley, and heard stories that indicated the Popes who resided in the chateau were not only interested in wine as a sacramental beverage.

A few miles up the road, Mike pulled over and invited us to tramp with him into a rocky vineyard. Apparently, vines only thrive in the least fertile soil, so the presence of rocks and sand are a necessity for their growth. Not only that, but the stones absorb heat during the day and reflect it back at night so the ripening process continues under the stars

Each vine was only about three feet tall, kept intentionally dwarf-like to avoid being destroyed by the Mistral winds that can sweep down from the north at any time of year and blow a crop to pieces in a matter of hours. In spite of this height precaution, 50% of this year’s Chateauneuf du Pape grapes could not be harvested, since an uncommonly cold spring brought extensive frost and hail damage.

Just up the road, we pulled into Domaine Le Pointu for our first winery tour. The owner greeted Mike with a hearty handshake and went back to work, trusting Mike to show us around, explain the operation, and help us sample the product. The owner’s 7-year-old son was dating unassembled wine boxes, while his 5-year-old brother received tutoring in the art from his father (“a little smaller, Mathieu”). After finding out more about the various steps of wine making, we sat in the warehouse among gigantic palettes of wine bottles and began sampling. Mike uncorked bottle after bottle. Some he recommended for nights when “John and Mary are coming up the driveway, and you throw a pizza in the oven, remembering how much they eat and drink.” Other bottles he advised us to drink over dinners “when it’s just the two of you, with a nice piece of salmon or some scallops.” Even though neither of us was driving, we realized we had better learn how to sip and swallow only occasionally, while swishing and spitting more often.

After lunch in the courtyard of an out-of-nowhere country restaurant, Mike reappeared for the afternoon portion of our tour. We visited Domaine les Goubert, a father-daughter operation in Gigondas, another renowned winemaking region. It’s interesting to note that wineries in France are known by their domain name, or region, and not by the novelty-style monikers so common among North American and Australian winemakers. Not only that, but the grape varieties are seldom listed on the bottle. The thinking here is that the grape “expresses” the soil, climate, and geography of the domain, rather carrying its own generic importance.

At Domaine Les Goubert, the daughter leaves us to our own discoveries soon after we arrive. We appreciate the coolness of the basement operations tour, then go upstairs for tasting. We agonize that we are only allowed to bring two bottles each into Canada, but we finally make some selections and climb back into the van.

On the way home to Caromb, Mike tells us that in his “off season” he shares his knowledge of Rhone wines with students in hotel schools across Holland, Germany, and Switzerland. Lucky students, I think, and feel fortunate that we’ve had the opportunity to benefit from a little of Mike’s vast understanding of wine and a lot of his passion.

Caromb, France

The week before we left Canada, our microwave died with a guttural groan and a burnout electrical stench. “Oh, well,” we said. “We’ve had it twelve years. It doesn’t owe us anything.” This attitude seems more than a little ironic in light of the Roman ruins (and not so ruins) that we’ve been touring – structures thousands of years old, some of them still in use.

In Orange, we discovered Le Theatre Antique, a 10000-seat Roman amphitheatre, the only one in Europe with its acoustic wall intact. Built in the first century A.D., the performances staged there were intended to “Romanize” the population, and so were free of charge to every social class – nobles and craftsmen, slaves and criminals. The original statue of Caesar Augustus continues to overlook the stage and the audience members, just as it did in Roman times. If you think that you’ve seen this statue in your own European travels, you probably have: the standard issue statue bodies were shipped out around the Roman Empire, and only the heads were changed as each new leader came to power. As Rick Steeves riffs in his book on Provence, imagine Barack Obama’s head on George Bush’s body (or in an Albertan context, Alison Redford’s bob and pearls on Ralph Klein’s corpulence).

After the Roman Empire fell, Christian leaders closed the amphitheatre, barbarian invaders plundered it, and Orange’s soldiers and citizenry used it as a defensive post and refuge during various religious wars. However, the amphitheatre stood strong. It was revived as a performance venue during the nineteenth century, and has been in use ever since. Plays, poetry readings, operas, symphonies and rock music have found a home there: we saw archival film footage of a very young Elvis Costello (before his time in black-rimmed, geek chique glasses) and a skinny, long-haired Mark Knopfler, smirking behind his guitar, when they performed at the theatre in 1979 and 1981 respectively.

After wandering the theatre’s shady upper corridors, its archways providing natural frames for the rooftops of Orange, we crossed the street to the history museum where other antiquities are on display: Among my favorites were the decorations that warned grave robbers away from mausoleums, indicating the nasty fates that awaited them if they disturbed the dead. We finished our Roman ruins tour of Orange by driving out to view their own Arc de Triomphe, built in the second century BC to commemorate Caesar’s subjugation of the Gauls.

The next day, just up the road in the town of Vaison La Romaine, we toured 15 hectares of archaeological ruins, the most of any place in France. We found another, still-in-use amphitheatre, although it is half the size of Orange’s and no longer has its acoustic wall. The other artifacts spread throughout the town include the foundations of sprawling Roman houses and commercial centres. As we listened to explanations of what we were seeing, courtesy of our English language audioguides, I marvelled at walking where, centuries ago, women and men ruled and were ruled, slept, bathed, cooked, ate and drank. I imagined the thrill of the early 20th century archeologists, unearthing columns, sculptures, cookware, and murals. What fascinating work to piece together the discovered puzzle bits into a coherent, engaging story that would connect the lives of ancient Romans with those of 21st century travellers from around the world.

Caromb, France

A deep-voiced bell tolls… sun pierces my eyelids… where am I? I roll over and, through the window, Caromb appears like a Provencal postcard – our whitewashed terrace; the neighbors’ red tiled roofs; farms and forest reaching back into the midground; Mount Ventoux watching aloofly over the scene from a distance.

We arrived here in the tranquillity of a village Sunday evening, under a lavendar-orange sunset. Ian ,who with his partner Axelle, owns La Vieil Hopital, guided us to the property , first by cell phone and then in person. No wonder our vehicle`s GPS struggled to locate it. The building, established in 1500, is hidden away down a cobbled, 8 foot wide street. Ian and Axelle greeted us warmly, leading us up two flights of red tiled stairs, flickering in candle light, to the apartment that will be our home for the next ten days.

Even through the haze of our fatigue, we recognize a jewel: we have our own kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms, a solarium, and two terraces. A chilled bottle of Ventoux vineyard rose is chilling in the refrigerator. Ian and Axelle say goodnight and we head out to find food, any food. Though most of Caromb’s restaurants are already closed, we find an open pizzeria, and take the pie back to the terrace off the solarium. We look up into a silent, starry, starry night, finish off the pizza and the rose, and bed down in the solarium. This is Lorne’s choice since his injured left side is still not comfortable in a totally horizontal sleeping position. The solarium features a boho arrangement of beanbag pillows and mattresses, so we each claim a corner of the nest and drift off to sleep.

This morning, with Lorne still dozing peacefully, I get up to explore the apartment and the property in daylight. Every room is a decorator’s delight – at least, for those decorators who would rather have their work featured in Alternative Artist’s Anonymous than in Rooty Tooty Snooty Home and Gardens. Everywhere I look, there is a little surprise – a plant, a painting, a sculpture, a gnarled tree branch wrapped in minilights, a collection of vintage books. I feel at home, 10000 kilometres away from home.

Caromb, France

A friend of mine recently returned from 62 days of adventuring in Europe. “My husband and I decided to call our trip an adventure, instead of a vacation. A vacation indicates that nothing is supposed to go wrong. On an adventure, you don’t expect everything to be perfect, so you’re more accepting of the bumps on the road.”

Well said, I had thought at the time, and yesterday, on our way from Canada to Provence, I reminded myself frequently to reframe our travels using her definition. Having spent the afternoon in the air between Edmonton and Montreal, and the night over the Atlantic between Montreal and Frankfurt, Lorne and I were looking forward to completing the last two legs of our journey – Frankfurt to Marseilles by air, and then a drive to Caromb, a small town tucked away at the base of Mount Ventoux in Provence.

We arrive at the Frankfurt airport at 6:35 a.m., our flight to Marseilles scheduled to leave at 8 a.m., and join a crush of travellers desperate to make their connecting flights on time. The German immigration officers appear oblivious to our incessant watch checking. Our security line moves comme un escargot, and then stops completely. Finally released from scrutiny, we begin the frantic dash to the gate, jostling carry-ons, camera bags, and anyone who gets in our way, The signs indicating Terminal A are interminable, pointing us onto elevators, up stairwells, through shopping areas, and onto moving sidewalks. At 7:53, we arrive… but the flight has departed.

The gate agent is only a little sympathetic. “We do have another flight to Marseilles at 4:30 p.m,” 4:30? Nothing before then? ” Well, possibly we could route you through Munich. But I can’t help you with that. You’ll have to ask at the Lufthansa Service Centre when you rebook. Just follow the signs back that way.”

We retrace our steps almost all the way to our original starting point, our bags much heavier than they were 5 minutes ago. We join a lineup of other annoyed, fatigued travellers, and present our boarding passes and our case to the female gatekeeper. She looks over the tops of her black-rimmed half glasses at a list on her desk. “I see you came in on Flight 874 from Montreal, That’s an Air Canada flight. We can’t rebook an Air Canada flight. They’ll have to do that for you. You’ll have to go to their service desk in Terminal B and then come back through security. You might want to look into some meal vouchers while you’re there.”

My sleepless night, my coffeeless morning, and the travel bag cutting into my shoulder push me out of my usual zone of Canadian compliance.”We are NOT going back out through security to Terminal B. We’ve just run miles to get to a flight that left early. As you can see, my husband has an injury” – I point to his slinged arm, the result of a cycling crash two weeks earlier – “and we want better service.”

“Well, I suppose I can get Air Canada to send one of their carts to get you. Give me your boarding passes and wait over there.”

We slump into our chairs, commiserating with each other and another couple from our Montreal flight who are trying to rebook to Toulouse. It briefly occurs to me that if we’d plunked our money down on a nice, safe guided tour vacation, none of this would have happened. Even though neither of us is attracted to that travel style, it’s easy to forget that independent adventuring involves experiencing the negative outcomes of risk taking, as well as its excitement and enjoyable discoveries.

Forty five minutes pass. The Lufthansa gatekeeper reappears, not with an Air Canada cart, but with boarding passes for the 4:30 flight. “That’s the best I can do. You’ll need to go get your meal vouchers at the Air Canada desk yourselves.”

We spend the next 8 hours eating mediocre airport food, dozing in 15 minute spurts, and spelling each other off from baggage care to wander the overpriced shops. Too tired to read, we stare out at the grey Frankfurt skies and greyer, rain slicked tarmac. The incessant announcements urging people onboard their immediately departing flights for Mauritius and Oslo, Thessaloniki and Venice, taunt us at first and then become white noise. When we finally shuffle onto our flight to Marseilles, we cross our fingers that our luggage has accompanied us onto the aircraft and that the elements of independent adventuring we enjoy will catch up with us once we arrive in Provence.