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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. 

Last year, an acquaintance let us in on a great secret–for those that love antiques as much as Remi and I do but don’t necessarily have the budget to fulfill our dusty dreams, there is an an event worth exploring. Every two to three months, antique dealers come from across Europe to sell their wares at the Montpellier déballage, or “unwrapping”. Montpellier is perfectly placed with easy access from Italy and Spain–both are only a few hours away by car–which brings an especially cosmopolitan mix of sellers. As the sale is normally reserved for professionals to the trade, the prices are up to four times less than what one would pay in a shop. Buyers fly in from across the globe. Russian, American and Lebanese accents overlap incessantly. 

Now, we are not professionals, though I do one day dream of opening my own store as well as including antiques in our next gallery. But if you talk the talk and walk the walk, you are welcome to browse with the pros. Of course, my being American both helps to get me in the door but also insures that any prices that are quoted to me will be much higher than normal–I must be wealthy after all if I am American! So Remi and I have developed a system when we are interested in something where I will discreetly wander away while my Frenchman asks “how much?”.

So what can you find? Truly, just about anything that your imagination permits. The most important dealers fill out six football-field size halls, each slightly specialized in a style or provenance. I have a fondness for the Marco Polo Hall, where the most outrageous pieces are usually found. A medieval iron chandelier the size of a compact car? Check. A salon set worthy of Marie Antoinette? Take your pick. Museum quality paintings of a heart-breaking beauty? Yes. 

Admittedly, I felt a bit awkward taking photos, obviously a bit of a no-no as this is no place for tourists and you never know exactly how these pieces came to be here. But I did sneak a few, mainly to send to Brooke Gianetti, whose incredible design blog, Velvet & Linen, is as inspirational as it is charming. I knew that she would appreciate the patina on these Queen Anne’s. 

So what are les tendances? What is in fashion right now? Yes, there is often a theme or two that all of the vendors seem to be pushing. During our last visit it was still life’s of post-hunt scenes with rabbits and fowl. This go round there was a great prevalence of anything religious (surprising as I thought that was a trend that had already come and gone) and random architectural elements (as seen up top). There was also more high end 70s pieces–can’t say that interests me in the least! As always, the American buyers were snapping up all of the gold leaf mirrors they could find–many taller than I am.

The déballage starts early in the morning and finishes up by 1pm–part of what adds to the excitement. If you want something, you have to act on it right away. For Remi and I, there is little that we could ever afford even at the professional prices but what a plaisir des yeux–a treat for the eyes. After we have seen the lot, we retire to people watch, no, not at the Champagne Bar (yes, there is one) but at the deliciously unhealthy stand where we wolf down grilled bratwurst sandwiches stuffed with salty fries! Luckily, it is a lunch that we only have a few times a year. This being the edge of Provence, a gentleman also discreetly offered black truffles for sale out of a cooler as well. Perhaps a seller that had had a particularly good morning would splurge on them…

In the back hall, the moving companies carefully put stickers on the pieces that had been sold and scribbled their destinations in floppy notebooks. From there, it was fun to think of where they would go–all over the world. To store windows or direct into clients mansions. What a wealth of culture we have here in France. It really is something. And do you know what was boxed up with the others? That gigantic iron chandelier! 

After the coldest, gustiest winter that many can remember, a bit of a reprieve. It arrives every year around this time, a gift from Mother Nature to encourage us to hold on a tad longer. Imagine the clouds evaporating to reveal a story-book blue, temperatures jumping to 15°C (59°F!) inciting folks to fill up the café terraces, hungry for a bit of light. 

We made the most of it. Saturday we held the last of our winter get-togethers after the market. Glasses of cremant raised, we toasted that the worst has passed with a cheer. A table full of the usual suspects kept us picking for hours. Two of Remi’s tartes—fruit de mer and provençal tomato, oysters, two kinds of olives, crudités, salmon stuffed with cream cheese, dates stuffed with roquefort and wrapped in bacon…a cheese plate that was forgotten about completely, samossas from my new Vietnamese vendor (who gave us a salad yet again). And for a wonderful treat, our friend Anne brought along her made from scratch batter for the most delectable crepes topped by her always stellar apricot jam. Sigh. Alas, the photos are all too blurry as much cremant had been consumed!

Nearly all of us reunited that evening for a bal populaire, a village get together, that is put on each year by the world music festival Les Suds, also as a promise of fun things to come in warmer climes. The band was all horns, the music a cross between flamenco, Italian pop and polka! And yet, everyone was dancing, so desperate for a chance to be out, to let off a little steam. All ages and styles mixed and moved and shouted out. As always, we left while the party was still good (a mantra of mine).

Our Sunday drive was a meander through the Camargue, the marshy park land to the South, towards Aigues Mortes. Saint Louis built the fortified walls in the 13th century and it was the departure point for the Seventh and Eight Crusades. Less hard to imagine that sea used to come up to the walls when you see the presence of water constantly interacting with the sky in the surrounding region. 

We don’t get often enough to the Mediterranean, despite it being forty minutes away. But timing was on our side yesterday evening as we passed the beach at Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer just as the sun was flaming into the pink of the flamingoes that line the local lagoons. How happy we all were to be calmed by the swish of the surf, the simplicity of a horizon extending off to Africa. 

This morning the gray was back in the form of a cottony fog clinging to the banks of the Rhone River. So it was just a taste, not a meal. But enough to fill us all with a boost of the hope that is Spring.

My goodness, I have been a bit remiss in writing. I have things to share but have been perhaps caught up in a bout of winter sluggishness. A bit of sadness too as Emma, my Mom’s incredibly loving Golden Retriever, passed away. She will be missed as she gave unconditional love to everyone who crossed her path. Sometimes I think we all forget the power of being kind.

As the sky opened into a downpour, Remi headed home with our moving mop of a Golden but I had a mission in mind. Customers had to shout at the vendors to be heard and yet everyone wore a goofy smile at the ridiculousness of bending about to avoid bumping umbrellas. At the very least, I thought it polite to stop by the Vietnamese dumpling seller that we had first visited last week. Loyalty is no joking matter in the Provençal markets. So it was a big deal to convince Remi to give this new vendor a try. Her truck is blue and beaten up, looks like nothing (but as any foodie knows that is a good sign). We often get Vietnamese food on the weekends as a treat and were delighted when she had immediately shoved two piping hot samosas in front of us to nibble on. Her cooking is fantastic, simple but with the exact clean taste that we knew in Vietnam. She was clearly delighted to see that she had, indeed, won a new customer and set about asking a rapid-fire list of questions. Within minutes she had decided that I should teach English and promised that she would keep an eye out for possible students. She told me of how she is putting her son through his studies in Paris, paying 1000€ for his miniscule apartment. As she gathered up my purchases, she placed the above chicken and shrimp salad in the bag as well. “This is from me,” she said simply. Sometimes the surprise of unexpected kindnesses can change your world around. 

How wonderful to come home to a roaring fire and such a luxurious lunch..for practically nothing. As we settled in for one of our long eating and talking marathons, Remi made one of my favorite declarations. “Nous sommes quand même les Rois du Pétrole”.  It translates to living like a king! An oil magnate! Here in Provence, that is one of the simple joys that is available for everyone to appreciate. Yes, of course, now I remember…