While I appreciate where I am, in the ancient town of Arles in the South of France, at times I catch myself dreaming of next door. In this case, that would be a village further up the Rhone, one whose name I am keeping to myself for now, selfishly, superstitiously, as it is a shade of a Secret Provence, one that time forgot. While here I am besotted with weighty presence of the Roman Arena and the Antique Theatre, there I let my hands drift over wildflowers. I push through the crowds of tourists whilst walking my two dogs here and there let them run free.
There is a moment for everything in life, I suppose. My young adulthood was spent amidst the bustle of Manhattan and I swam in the river of its corpulent energy. That is, until I met a Frenchman named Remi and suddenly, all of the paparazzi spiked nights of clinking martinis didn’t seem so interesting anymore. I just wanted to be where he was. So that is what I did. I picked up and let my love lead the way to Paris, then together we swan-dived to the South, down-shifting in speed as I went. And I think it might be time for yet another release of the clutch.
If I have figured out anything from living under this soupy sun, it is that time is a precious bijou to be flaunted on your ring finger, appreciated by all. It is not that I want more of it but I want the space around me to feel its grace. That is the essence of Provence. Not lavender, not the perfume of rosemary in the hills or a sweaty glass of rosé at an outdoor café.
We shall have to wait a bit to see if we will make a move or not but until then I will keep dreaming…and if we stay put, well then I will just keep remembering…how lucky I am, fortunate to live in any Provence, secret or not.
Thank you, Heather, for gracing us with your presence as I'm living it up in South America! Please visit Heather's blog if you're like me and love to daydream of Provence....