I am (re)reading A Year in Provence for my book club. When I first read it 15 some years ago, I found it interesting but not riveting. The only thing I remembered from that reading was the Mistral and how absolutely horrible it sounded. (The Mistral is the bitter winter wind that whips down through Provence all winter… battering everything in sight.)
I had no idea that years later, I’d end up living just outside Provence.
But, here I am.
Now, reading the book again, I have quite a different perspective.
The book doesn’t really mention the language challenges one faces living here, especially in a small town. And the cultural differences are the very things the author and his wife embrace, rather than struggle against. They don’t have a small child going to school. They aren’t working. They’ll eat just about anything… even smelly cheese.
Still, I find myself reading the book and thinking gee, that sure sounds nice… what a pleasant lifestyle… eating big lunches cooked by little old ladies in restaurants as old as the hills… chatting with odd ball neighbors… swimming… going to markets… bicycling up the old hills…
Then I remind myself of one thing. I do live in France. And my France seems to be a rather different France than his. Why does his sound so much more appealing?
Grass is always greener when someone else spreads the fertilizer.