Encore Provence (27 page)

As for vegetables, he would find that they were larger, glossier, and more numerous than he was used to. Nothing would be out of season. And he would have his
first exposure to the Korean greengrocers who seem to have taken over the vegetable business in Manhattan. Unfortunately, comparing notes with fellow professionals would be tricky, although I liked the thought of a Korean and a Provençal trying to discuss the fine points of zucchini without the benefit of a common language.

In the end, I decided on just one suggestion. If Jean-Luc wanted to see some green—some serious green—being cultivated, the Stock Exchange was the place to go.

He looked up from the map, shaking his head in astonishment, enchanted by the symmetrical grid of midtown Manhattan.

“I never realized it was so logical,” he said, “so easy.”

“It’s fun, too,” I said. “Great fun. But you’ll find the speed of it a bit of a shock after Provence. Everybody’s in a hurry.”

“Why?”

There are times when a shrug is the only answer.

Eleven years ago, more by accident than design, I wrote A
Year in Provence
. It would be surprising if changes hadn’t taken place during the time that has passed, and it has been said, particularly by the British press, that I have contributed to some of those changes. One of my crimes is to have encouraged people to visit the region. Too many people—
far
too many people—if the reports were to be believed. Worse still, they were people of the wrong sort. One marvelously eccentric newspaper article claimed that my book had inspired busloads of English football hooligans (not a group noted for its voracious reading habits) to descend on the Luberon. We were assured that they would be awash with beer and bristling with violent intentions. Horrors of pillage, debauchery, and destruction were hinted at with great glee. But since nobody had bothered to inform the hooligans, they didn’t come. The story died.

It was replaced by other invasion stories, most of them written from vantage points a thousand miles away on the other side of the Channel, lamenting the end of Provence as an unspoiled area. It was interesting to compare what the articles said with what I saw when I looked out of the window: More often than not, the view would be of a deserted road and a deserted valley. Very little in the way of hordes.

Now, eleven years later, not much has changed. The neighborhood wines have improved enormously, and there is a greater choice of restaurants. Some of the more popular
villages, such as Gordes and Bonnieux, become crowded in July and August. But the unattractive monuments to mass tourism—those three-hundred-room hotels and theme parks and condominium colonies—don’t exist, and never will as long as current building restrictions remain in force. Provence is still beautiful. Vast areas of it are still wild and empty. Peace and silence, which have become endangered commodities in the modern world, are still available. The old men still play their endless games of
boules
. The markets are as colorful and abundant as ever. There is room to breathe, and the air is clean.

More than anything else, people make a place, and the local inhabitants don’t seem to have changed at all. I’m happy to have this chance to thank them for the warmth of their welcome and their many kindnesses. We were made to feel that we had come home.