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Isn’t this exactly what you imagine Provence looks like? Fountains, such as this one celebrating hometown boy gone scary, Nostradamus, dot small squares. Shadows ark and trace the bendy mish mash of architecture, with 17th and 20th pressed up against one another like strangers at a dance.

It is a town for strolling and lollygagging. Café sitting and wishful thinking. Where the charm might seem a bit syrupy in the bulge of the summer high season but merely a touch sweet at any other point in the year. We weren’t alone. I watched the faces of those around us, looking up and out instead of at their feet and with couples displaying a far greater percentage of hand-holding than is ever seen in these parts. Remi and I actually came to St-Rémy the very first week that we met, so naturally I have a soft spot for it as well, sentimental as I am.

What is constantly amazing to me in Provence is that it is still affordable to live here, if that is what interests you. Now, I am not saying that you can have all of this lushness on your terms. No, not necessarily. For example, the idea of buying in St-Rémy remains elusive to our dwindling budget. To rent, however, remains entirely possible. We visited two properties. One with wavy, aged windows that unfortunately opened on to the main parking lot for 640 Euros per month and a charming village house with a tiny but private terrace for 825. I must say we were tempted. By its secret entryway just off of our favorite square, its generous proportions. Less so by the lack of light but it was something to consider. Especially after the estate agent called to tell us that the price had been lowered to 800. 

Now that sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it? Just a little salad, that’s all! Well, yes, this is France and I am talking about a salade composée, a composed salad. No, not composed as in calm (though I must say it gives me a terribly peaceful just looking at it), composed as in built. Constructed layer by layer. So an oh-so innocent beginning of mesculun leaves quickly becomes swallowed by tomatoes and hearts of palm–veggies!–then a smattering of…avocado…um…then…lardons (ok, bacon)…fried goat cheese…and topped with a boiled egg. At least the egg is boiled! The dressing is a homemade mustard vinaigrette that is so thick that you could stand a spoon up in it. But it is fresh! Good for you! Sigh. We do try to be good but somehow even with the best intentions, gourmandise always wins.

My Mom surprised me the other day with a comment that shouldn’t have, I suppose. “You know that people think of your life as glamorous, whether it is or not to you.” I forget that at times, as well as the assumptions, the easy clichés tacked on to the idea of living in France, let alone Provence. It hasn’t always helped me with my relations that are far away. When I was working full time as a travel writer? Yes, that I agree was decidedly the stuff that glamorous dreams reside on. I spent my 35th birthday as a producer for Remi’s ad for Apple at a luxury camp that we had hired out in Botswana, along with their trained elephants. Once the shot was in the can, we cracked a bottle of Veuve and then headed off on safari, where I spotted the Momma lion and her cubs before flying out in a private plane towards home. Now, that, to me, counts.

In this odd time while I am not working, when we are posing mega questions about everything–where we should live, what we should do, let alone truly feeling the pinch of not having money coming in–no, it doesn’t feel so heady. Remi is pushing so hard to make things happen, to advance on his projects that I worry, even though I understand. So at times we find ourselves brushing up against a fistful of ‘no’s. 

Although it may seem that we spend our days aimlessly slicing through the region, all is done with the  goal of advancing Remi’s current project. Every kilometre is counted, especially as the price of gas (or petrol) is roughly seven times what it is in the States. So imagine our frustration when, after nearly two hours of searching, we arrived at our first stop, only to find that it was on private property? Barred. Or that the scenic point on the infamous Col de la Madeleine (often the back-breaker and occasional life-taker on the Tour de France) was actually an unmarked bunker from the Second World War? Scarred. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had been Germans or French using this lookout. Or both. 

The clouds seemed to suck up all of the ash that swirled above the vineyards and orchards where farmers burnt last year’s branches. A false evening surrounded us, covering the thousand year old Notre Dame d’Aubion all too soon. “What a shame, ” an elderly gentleman out walking with his daughter noted about our visit, “Yesterday was perfect.” He shrugged and tottered on. The church’s tower, supposedly founded by Charlemagne, seemed to pull away from my regard.

What is Romance? On this Valentine’s Day? Many things to many different people, I would imagine and nothing at all to some. I actually did go into my local flower shop this morning to replace my orchid near the front door. The usually jovial women that work there looked at me with a slight wince of “help” as their male customers hemmed and hawed. Often, it looked as if they were trying to pick out something that wouldn’t look cheap while spending the least amount of money. I remember so well in Manhattan how this evening, of all out of the year, would create the most awkward moments with the highest expectations, leading more often than not to disappointment. In France, there is less of the pressure to conform to an idea of a commercial holiday but it is felt nonetheless. I can see that my unattached girlfriends are trying to put on a brave face and I know all too well how that feels. As a single, working girl, I once crossed midtown in a snowstorm on this day to buy myself a trinket at Tiffany’s because I knew that no one else would.

So I think it is good to remember that romance takes many forms. Is not only about love with a partner, of course. And I had a lovely surprise the other day in our perpetual wanderings. I had heard of Oppède le Vieux, one of the storied hill towns at the beginning of the Luberon. It is lesser known than those made famous by Peter Mayle and I was quickly able to see why. It is in ruins. And has been for centuries.

And yet how elegant the remains are, holding their memories tight. Of budding faith in this small chapel of Les Penitents Blancs, of a bustling village coursing through a fortified castle closed up tight. How odd to see their bare bones in the stark winter light. I wanted to cover up the whole village in a  blanket to protect it. A feeling that had luckily been shared by a group of artists after the armistice in 1940, including Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry, wife of Antoine de Saint Exupéry (author of Le Petit Prince and famed pilot) who brought the world’s attention to this lost corner of the Luberon in her novel, Oppède.

And Oppède le Vieux has remained an artists haven attracting painters and the occasional movie star or two. Maybe that is also the reason why this little village has remained more discreet than its camera-ready cousins Ménerbes and Bonnieux (both of which were featured in resident Ridley Scott’s pean to Provence, A Good Year). There are no souvenir shops selling glossy postcards, not at this time of year at least, nor are there paved paths for easy access. Slippery moss covered cobble stones peter off into sheer drops over the valley. Clambering to the top of the fortress is risky and only for the adventurous. But who did I find tucked up beyond a once magnificent vaulted stairway now open to the sky? A pair of lovers entwined in each others arms. They clearly found the setting as romantic as I did.

Forgotten beauty, what remains. Ideas that I have been thinking and writing much about lately. It is only normal, I suppose, now that I am growing older. A romantic outlook beyond that wild rush that overtakes body and soul. Something simpler. But that still makes the heart sing.