Our Grand Tour of Europe

Over the Mountain

The spring days have been mostly sunny and usually clear, and we’ve taken advantage of the warmer weather to accelerate our hiking activities. We love the physical exercise, but most of all, we love being right in the middle of this beautiful countryside—so wild and rocky, but also so lush and pastoral, filled with unexpected surprises: prehistoric caves, ancient mills, hidden bridges, an old château. Charley and I have been trying to hike three times a week, including Kelly more often these last few weeks. As we complete each hike, we mark our route on our ordnance map with a yellow highlighter. In our six months here, we’ve trekked a substantial amount of territory on the Grand Luberon, the Petit Luberon and the Vaucluse Plateau. We could continue our trend of three hikes a week for another six months and still have more trails to discover.

Wednesday was a milestone hike for us, one we have planned for several months. We hiked across the Petit Luberon mountain (about 15 km or 9 miles)… from the Gorges du Régelon on the south side to Oppède-le-Vieux on the north side. This hike required some special coordination because it wasn’t one of our normal circular hikes where we start and end at the same point. This time we’d finish on the other side of the mountain from where we began. We needed a friend with a second car to join us or perhaps to hire a taxi to help us with logistics.

We’ve hiked several times with our good friend Kevin Widrow, and we were glad he wanted to be part of this special hike. We decided to hike on a Wednesday so Kelly could hike too. We met Kevin and left our car in the parking lot at Oppède, and then drove with Kevin around the west end of the Petit Luberon. We parked at the entrance to the Gorges du Régelon near Mérindol where our walk began.

Charley and I had hiked the Gorges du Régelon in early February, one of the first “challenging” hikes we did. You can’t do this hike on a rainy day or a day after rain, because water pours off the rocks and rushes down the very narrow gorge. The thought is really rather frightening. I’d forgotten how narrow—and exciting—the gorge is. There are several caves on either side, and several tricky spots where you climb up 20 feet of rocks to get to the next level. In one place you crouch for about 25 feet to pass under a rock roof. Kelly especially enjoyed this part of the hike, and Kevin put it on his list of future hikes to do with his son Thomas.

Because of several family events that afternoon, Kevin couldn’t hike all the way over the mountain with us, but we hiked through the gorge together and then up into the open expanses of the Petit Luberon. Once out in the sunlight, we noticed that the rocky landscape was covered with miniature yellow daffodils.

“You need to hike around Mont St. Victoire,” Kevin told us. “The wild irises are so beautiful there.”

A few minutes later we spotted a clump of bright purple wild irises, growing at high altitude in the rocky soil. We didn’t need to go to Mont St. Victoire after all.

We said goodbye to Kevin, who took another route back to his car. Kelly, Charley and I headed on up the mountain on a very steep and rocky path, a huge outcropping of rocks beckoning us from above. We could see at least 20 miles, our view to the south expanding as we climbed higher and higher. We saw the jagged Alpilles, the A7 highway heading down to Marseille and even the glimmer of the Étang de Berre—all now so familiar to us. On a perfectly clear day, we would have seen the Mediterranean Sea and Mont St. Victoire.

We stopped from time to time to catch our breath and admire the views. We watched Kevin move away from us on his path headed back to the south, and we watched him get smaller and smaller in the distance. We turned around every few minutes to check his progress, waving when we could get his attention, until he disappeared from sight about 30 minutes later. Then Kelly reminded us that it was time for lunch. We ate our sandwiches perched on some rocks on the side of the trail. We were all alone on the Petit Luberon.

Kelly led the way, the path sometimes difficult to follow. We’ve all learned how to follow the various blazes that mark the walking trails in France. This particular route was a Grande Randonée (GR) trail, blazed in red and white and also in yellow. We finally reached the rocky peak only to realize we weren’t yet at the top. Our path continued upward, finally arriving at the forest track that extends all along the crest of the Petit Luberon and our peak elevation of 704 m (2310 feet), just short of the highest point on the Petit Luberon. The top of the mountain is flat and covered with evergreen and cedar trees, a totally different environment. Just along the side of the track was a small mountain hut—the Bastidon du Pradon—containing a table and chairs and some simple bunk-bed shelves… a refuge for overnight hikers. We lingered briefly at the top and then began our descent down the tree-covered north slope. The path was very rocky and steep, actually trickier to go down than up.

Suddenly we spotted a few people hiking up the trail toward us… a few men, a woman, then more. They all greeted us with a friendly “Bonjour,” and to our amazement the people kept on coming. We stepped off to the side to let the people pass. “Soixante-huit,” several people said. “Sixty-eight of us.” There were sixty-eight hikers, most appearing to be in their late 60’s or 70’s. They stretched out in a long line, making steady progress up the rocky path. Everyone was smiling… no stragglers or complainers in this group. I hope I can hike like that when I’m in my late 60’s and 70’s… actually, I wish I could hike uphill like that now!

Eventually our path opened up on beautiful views over a jagged canyon. We had a wonderful view of the village of Menerbes far below to the east, stretched out along a ridge and looking kind of like a boat. We spotted our own village of Bonnieux on its hillside in the distance, and the taller buildings of Apt even further away. On the opposite side of the valley, we saw Gordes and the busy commercial centers of Maubec, Robion and Coustellet. We thought we even could see Avignon far off in the west.

Directly below us was our ultimate destination—Oppède-le-Vieux. We’ve visited Oppède a couple of times and find it a fascinating place. The old village is impressively located on top of a rocky point jutting out from the Petit Luberon. This area was probably a refuge for prehistoric tribes, though the first evidence of occupation is from Roman times. In the Middle Ages Oppède was a very important place and by the 14th century had about 900 residents inside its protective walls. Then, primarily because of its inconvenient location, people began leaving the hilltop village and moved to a new Oppède village on the plain, closer to farmland and important services. By the end of the 19th century the old village was totally abandoned. After World War II a group of artists began to revive the village—it’s now partially restored but still largely in ruins and mostly uninhabited. When we visit Oppède, we hike up the steep cobbled streets to the ruins of the chateau and the 13th century church. It’s a strenuous climb from the parking lot to the base of the chateau ruins, but now as we viewed Oppède-le-Vieux from the top of the Petit Luberon, the village—which seemed so high when we were there—was way down below… not really high at all.

We continued our steep climb down, eventually reaching the village and then our car. The rotund, red-faced parking attendant who greeted us that morning was still on duty. We had been his first customers of the day. “Une très bonne randonée,” we told him. “A very good hike.” Our 9-mile walk took us about five hours. Although the distance wasn’t that substantial, we had a lot of elevation to climb—from 115 meters (377 feet) at the Régelon parking lot to over 700 meters (2310 feet) on the forest road. Charley and I were exhilarated, but Kelly was worn out, mainly from the stress of walking on the rocks.

I’ve enjoyed all our hikes in Provence, but our hike over the Petit Luberon was the peak experience for me. Up and over the mountain on a beautiful day, hiking with our daughter, sharing part of the experience with a good friend, the panoramic view of both sides of the Luberon… the countryside we now know so well. For most of our walk we didn’t encounter another person—just us alone in the vastness of the Luberon wilderness. Almost every minute of the walk was interesting.

Un Bon Anniversaire

Charley turned 60 on Friday, March 18, and we had a big celebration with a surprise twist. Kelly’s best friend Allison and her mom Cynthia had arrived from Knoxville on Thursday, and we arranged for Ally to go to school with Kelly the next day. Charley and I planned to walk to Bonnieux with Cynthia on Friday morning and have lunch with the girls at our favorite café, Le Terrail. Kelly and I didn’t make a big deal about it being Charley’s birthday. Unknown to him, however, we planned something more elaborate. We secretly invited two other American families—the Thompsons and the Jenkins—to join us at the café, making it a group of twelve for Charley’s birthday lunch.

We’ve been eating at Le Terrail about once a week since the first of the year. It’s a simple place with good, hearty Provençal food and reasonable prices. The menu is written on an erasable white board that’s passed from table to table as new diners arrive. We really like the waiter, Michel… distinctive with his shaved head and big smile… always very friendly and tremendously efficient. He’s especially kind to Kelly and always gives her special service so she can get back to school while Charley and I linger over dessert. Michel speaks almost no English, so our conversations are in French. We always nod our heads and pretend we understand absolutely everything he says. I suspect he does the same to us.

About a week before Charley’s birthday, he and I stopped at Le Terrail after one of our hikes. We had thirty minutes before the end of Kelly’s school day—not enough time to go home, but perfect for a leisurely drink and dessert at Le Terrail. As we left the café, I told Charley I needed to visit the tabac up the hill and would meet him down at the school. I started up the steep street and hid in an alcove until Charley was out of sight, hoping no one from the village would pass by and question my strange behavior. Then I doubled back down to Le Terrail, beckoning Michel over for a private conversation. My husband was having a special birthday, I said. Was it possible to have a special table for a surprise birthday lunch? Could he also arrange a special dessert? “Pas problème,” Michel assured me. “No problem.” He was happy to help and would, of course, say nothing to Charley.

Charley’s birthday morning was bright and sunny, another perfect day. He drove the two girls to school and brought back fresh croissants for breakfast. About 10:30 we set off through the cherry orchard with Cynthia, our normal shortcut to Bonnieux. Charley and I can now walk to the village in thirty minutes, but it usually takes longer with visitors—pictures to take, landmarks to point out, and a less-accelerated pace.

Friday morning is the weekly market in Bonnieux on Place Gambetta, a pretty square halfway up the hillside and overlooking the valley. Le Terrail is located on one side of the square. When we arrived at the square, I spotted Michel on the outdoor terrace where several market-goers were enjoying coffee in the sunshine. And there was our table for twelve in a prominent place—already prepared for us—with a string of balloons hung gaily above, all marked “Bon Anniversaire.”

Fortunately my husband wasn’t too observant. He greeted Michel and confirmed we would be there for lunch at noon. “Une table pour cinq à midi,” he reminded Michel. “A table for five a noon.” Behind him I shook my head at Michel and put my finger to my lips. Michel was a perfect straight man. “Absolument, Monsieur,” he responded.

It was a good market day—a wonderful way to introduce Cynthia to Provence. We bought cheese from the cheese man, goat cheese from the goat cheese woman, lavender essence from an elderly farmer, fruit and vegetables from one of the produce sellers. A couple from Oppède was selling quality fabric items—tablecloths, aprons, and lavender sachets. I hadn’t seen them before. The woman told me she spent the winter sewing, then she and her husband spent the warmer months selling at various markets, normally six and sometimes seven days a week. I liked the idea of buying from the woman who actually did the sewing. While Cynthia and I fussed over the brightly-colored fabrics, Charley wandered back to the cheese man. I could see them having an energetic conversation in French. Were they talking this long about cheese? Cynthia was still deliberating over tablecloths when Charley joined us to say he would walk down to meet Kelly and Allison at school. The school breaks at noon for an hour-and-a-half lunch.

Cynthia and I finished our shopping and hustled over to the special birthday table. A few minutes later our other friends arrived —three adults and four children. They were all excited about giving Charley the slip down at the school gate. Kelly and Allison were doing their part to dawdle on the way up the hill to the café. When Charley and the girls walked onto the terrace, we all shouted “Surprise!” and launched into a loud chorus of “Happy Birthday.” The other diners on the terrace applauded, and Charley was quite touched. Our friends brought him special gifts, and as the grand finale, Michel appeared with an exquisite chocolate cake specially prepared at one of the village boulangeries, decorated with swirls of chocolate, candles and a big 6-0.

Michel worked hard to make our lunch special. That Friday was the first big day of the season for the outdoor terrace… a sunny day and a busy market day. During the winter Michel handled the service at Le Terrail by himself. Now he had two new people helping him with the additional diners. Our group was challenging, I’m sure—four separate checks, six children who needed to be back at school by 1:30, two visitors eating their first-ever French meal, all of us Americans in too much of a hurry. Michel managed all this with his usual flair. I slipped him a larger-than-usual tip and gave him a kiss-kiss-kiss in thanks. He had become our friend.

Le Plat Du Jour

The day of Charley’s birthday the plat du jour (daily special) at Le Terrail was something called “alouette sans têtes.” Charley and I often order the plat du jour when we eat out, but this dish was one we hadn’t seen on menus before. Clearly something without a head—thank goodness… I wouldn’t have wanted it with the head! But what was an “alouette”? We should have asked Michel, but our friend Gwen was confident she knew.

“An alouette is a little songbird,”she said. “You know—that song! Alouette, gentille alouette, Alouette je te plumerai…” Several of us knew the song from childhood and began to hum along. Gwen told us how the happy little song really had to do with plucking the bird in order to cook it. The plat du jour was a songbird!? The French eat some unusual things, so we all thought it was indeed possible that the plat du jour was a songbird. Lisa somehow thought an alouette was a magpie, a big black and white crow-like bird that eats road-kill. I saw Cynthia’s look of concern—she’s very close to being a vegetarian. Where in the world had I brought her to eat for her first meal in France?

We were all quite sure we didn’t want to eat this unknown bird, with or without its head. So instead we all stuck with safer choices—lamb, steaks and salads.

A few days later we were back at Le Terrail for another of our regular lunches. The “alouette sans têtes” was still on the special menu. I called Michel over.

“Michel,” I asked in my halting French. “What is the alouette sans têtes? Is it a little bird?”

“Non, non, non!” he replied, shaking his head emphatically. He explained—as best I could understand—that it was thin slices of beef wrapped around ground meat and served with a sauce. “It’s a famous Provençal dish,” he told us.

And so this time I ordered the alouette sans têtes… and it was, of course, delicious. I wish I had ordered it at Charley’s birthday lunch! It wasn’t a poor little songbird or a magpie after all. Later on I found out that an “alouette” is a lark.

Just a few weeks before we’d had another interesting experience with a plat du jour at Le Terrail. When we arrived that day, we checked out the specials on the blackboard outside the door. “Civet de kangourou” was the plat du jour. We looked at each other in shock.

“Michel,” we asked. “C’est possible?? Kangourou?!” We had never seen kangaroo on a menu anywhere—and definitely didn’t expect to find something so… exotic… on the menu of our small café. Most of the patrons—at least in the off-season—seemed to be local workmen… not the expected audience for something like kangaroo.

“Mais, le pauvre kangourou,” I said to Michel. “But the poor kangaroo.”

“Le pauvre d’agneau. Le pauvre poulet. Le pauvre bœuf,” Michel said dramatically. “The poor lamb, the poor chicken, the poor cow.” He had a point.

Charley was intrigued by the idea of the kangaroo and the opportunity to try something unique—hardly French, but definitely unique. He asked Michel a few more questions about the dish. Michel was very positive about his daily special. He recommended it highly, telling us it cooked for hours in red wine and tasted like chicken.

I was impressed that Charley finally decided to try the kangaroo. I decided to watch and perhaps to take a small bite… a very small bite. I ordered the poor lamb instead. Kelly normally twists up her face over anything that’s not beef or chicken. To express it kindly, she’s an extremely selective eater. Eating a kangaroo would be a bit like eating a family pet… similar to her reaction to the idea of lamb or rabbit. She was somewhat horrified at her father’s choice and ordered her normal steak… the poor cow.

Our main courses arrived. Kelly and I both watched carefully as Charley tasted his kangaroo.

“Try this, Kathy. It’s really good!”

I took a bite. He was right—it was good. The taste was not so much chicken as beef… very tender and cooked in a rich gravy.

“I’ll give you five euro if you eat some of this kangaroo,” I offered Kelly. I don’t do this often, but from time-to-time I do offer her a “financial incentive” (okay, a bribe) to entice her to try something new. She’s passed up my offers on rabbit and mussels. I would have paid 10 euro to have her try some of my shellfish down on the Côte d’Azur. I rarely end up paying out.

This time—much to our surprise—Kelly ended up five euros richer. It wasn’t so much that she wanted the money—she really liked the looks of Charley’s stew. Kelly tasted the kangaroo… and then asked Charley if she could have whatever he didn’t want.

“Shall we hop back down to school?” Charley asked at the end of lunch.

It’s a Small, Small World…

That evening I posted a little story about eating kangaroo on the Slow Travel “food and drink” message board. Slow Travel is a website community of people who share a love of travel… primarily in Europe. I was curious if other people had seen kangaroo on menus anywhere. My posting didn’t generate a lot of interest, and I never even mentioned to Kelly and Charley that I’d told the story on the internet.

Last week we ate lunch again at Le Terrail. Charley went up early to get our table, while I waited for Kelly at the school gate. When we arrived at the terrace, Charley was smiling.

“Michel’s really excited to see you,” he said. “He’s got something to show you.”

Michel rushed over to our table, and he was definitely excited. He was carrying a plastic sleeve… protecting a copy of my posting on Slow Travel about eating kangaroo!

“Merci, merci beaucoup,” he said. “Thank you so much!” He was very proud. I had mentioned Le Terrail by name in the post and talked about how much we enjoyed the café.

“How did you find this?” I asked. I was amazed my posting had found its way back to Bonnieux. I also tried to remember exactly what I had written… did I say anything that I wouldn’t want the people here to know?

Michel said he wasn’t good on the computer. Another restaurant owner on the square had given it to him.

A few minutes later a man we didn’t know came over to our table. He had been eating with a group of locals nearby on the terrace. It was the other restaurant owner. He spoke to us in very good English.

“I am the one who found your article on the internet,” he announced. He had been doing a search to look for mentions of his own restaurant and had entered the name of the square. Voilà—there was my post about Le Terrail and the kangaroo!

The story of the American family who ate kangaroo—and then wrote about it on the internet—must have been a big topic of conversation among the regulars at Le Terrail. I’m sure my posting—now protected in its special plastic sleeve—has ended up in a place of honor in the café.

I realize how much smaller—how much more intimate—the world is now because of the internet. Suddenly our little village in the Luberon doesn’t seem quite so isolated. We are a world away… but then again we’re not. There may even be villagers in Bonnieux reading my blog.

Saying Goodbye

We’ve started the process of saying goodbye to this land that we love, this place that’s now home, these people who have become our friends. We know we’ll come back—hopefully for Kelly’s spring break next year —but this is still goodbye, the reluctant end of a very special time in our lives.

Cynthia and Ian—the owners of our house, La Bastide Vieille—arrived in Provence a few weeks ago and are staying in another house they own in the pretty village of St. Cannat, about an hour south of here. Our first goodbye—a hard one for me—was to Juno, the little blind poodle who had been part of our household since the end of November and is now reunited with Cynthia. Last Saturday Cynthia and Ian invited us to St. Cannat for lunch at their village house. They had some special gifts for us to thank us for taking care of Juno. Ian has come by a few times to work in the yard and late last week finished filling up the swimming pool. It’s obviously very early in the season (and far too cold to swim), but he wanted Kelly to have a chance to swim if the weather is warm enough in our last week here.

Cynthia and Ian are two of the new friends we’ve made in Provence. We hadn’t expected to make several good friends—including several families with children—and in this we’ve been very fortunate. We have the type of friends that help each other out, that will stay in contact, that we’ll see again. Last week we started a bittersweet series of meals and get-togethers to say goodbye to our friends in Provence: Cynthia and Ian, Janice, the Jenkins, the Thompsons, the Widrows, Mariette.

Kelly will have her big goodbye next Wednesday, her last day of school and the beginning of a 10-day spring break for the Bonnieux école élémentaire. On Friday she gave little gifts to each of her 19 classmates: a postcard of the Statue of Liberty, an American quarter featuring our home state of Tennessee, a Reese peanut butter cup and a couple of Hershey kisses. Kelly wrote a personal note to each child on the back of the postcard (in French), saying that the Statue of Liberty was a symbol of friendship between France and America and thanking them for being her friend. We wrapped each gift in white tissue paper and tied it with red, white and blue ribbons—the shared colors of France and America. We also had a special gift and thank you note for her teacher, Monsieur Grimaud.

“This is our last time at Leclerc,” I said on Thursday, as Charley and I made our final weekly shopping trip to the big supermarket. We didn’t buy much, since we need to empty our refrigerator and pantry by next Friday morning. “I’ll miss this place,” he said. It’s true—we really will miss the grocery store and our shopping trips together.

“This is probably our last visit to Saignon,” I told him as we made our way through the village with my sister and her family, headed to the rocky belvedere with its beautiful views.

“This is our last time in Roussillon,” I said, when we took our guests there on their last morning in Provence. As we walked along the tiny main street with its colorful buildings, I saw someone I knew—Madame Ducher, who runs the little dog-boarding place near the village. We boarded Juno there during our couple of visits away from Provence. Madame and I greeted each other with the now-familiar kiss-kiss-kiss, and I introduced my family. (I especially enjoyed introducing my brother-in-law Zach using the French term “beau-frère” or beautiful brother.) My sister was taken a bit aback—we have lived here only six months. Yet we see someone we know in another village twenty minutes away—a dog-boarding woman—and we know each other well enough to kiss-kiss-kiss on the street.

We took Debbie and her family to all three of our favorite restaurants—Le Terrail in Bonnieux, Café du Louvre in Apt, and Maison Gouin in Coustellet. The owners and staff at all three places have become friends, always greeting us enthusiastically and welcoming our guests. We enjoy the environment and the food at each restaurant… each one so different. We’ve come to relish the leisurely French approach to dining, the courteous service, the appreciation of good food, the use of fresh ingredients, the beautiful presentation… even in the most simple of places. But most of all, I love the familiarity of our three places. I like being a “regular” somewhere… maybe for the first time in my life. I never really had a “Cheers” where everyone knew my name. How strange—I’ve lived on the same street in Knoxville, Tennessee for eighteen years. We have regular eating places at home too, but with the exception of a small local Mexican restaurant, we really don’t know the staff anywhere. They come, they go…often they’re college students… they don’t greet us with a hug—much less three kisses. They don’t remember us…. we’re just another set of customers. Here—in only six months—we are friends.

Yesterday we went to our last Saturday market in Apt, an unusually cold and windy day. What happened to our beautiful spring? The crowd was lighter and definitely less festive than it had been two weeks before when we visited with Debbie and her family on a bright sunny day. Because of the strong winds, none of the sellers had their awnings or displays up. When Kelly and I stopped to stock up on herbes de Provence at the herb and spice stand, tiny bits of herbs blew in our faces.

Charley had a few errands, so Kelly and I went together on our traditional route through the market and the town one last time. She had saved her allowance along with her “kangaroo money,” and we both wanted to buy a few special things.

We stopped at the pottery shop on the big square (Tamisier) to buy the three king santons for our Christmas crèche. We said goodbye to the pottery man, the one we initially thought was so strange. He was surprised we were leaving—I think he thought we were here to stay.

Kelly’s favorite Asian food seller—where she normally buys her chicken snack—wasn’t there yesterday. Fortunately, we had taken his picture on our last visit.

We stopped at the pizza truck and spoke to the couple there. Charley had picked up pizza from them yesterday in Bonnieux, told them we were leaving, and took their picture. We have gotten pizza from the pizza truck almost every Friday. Now we’ve had our last Friday pizza lunch.

“Oh, we know you are leaving this week,” they said in French, as Kelly and I walked up. They see our family together at markets in Bonnieux, Apt and even Roussillon.

“Où est le printemps?” I asked. “Where is the spring?”

“Froid, chaud, froid,” said the pizza man. “Le printemps en Provence.” “Cold, hot, cold. Spring in Provence.”

We bought our last slice of Saturday morning pizza and bid the pizza truck couple “au revoir.”

We stopped at the candy shop, where Kelly carefully selected a few special chocolates. The old woman in the shop once told Charley and I that Kelly’s eyes were “magnifique!”

And then we had our last lunch at the Café du Louvre. We’ve eaten at this café on the Place de la Bouquerie in Apt almost every Saturday since mid-October. We really like the hard-working couple who own and run the place, even though we had never learned their names. They don’t speak English but somehow we’ve managed to communicate in our limited French and we’ve become friends. “D’habitude?” the woman asks Kelly every time. “The usual?” (Spaghetti carbonara, no egg, sauce on the side.)

Charley stopped at Le Louvre when we arrived at the market and asked them to hold a table for us at 12:15. Because it was so cold, Kelly and I were ready to get inside and arrived at Le Louvre half an hour early. Two men were just sitting down for coffee at our regular table by the window. The nice woman owner saw us come in and went over to the men. I saw her point to us and then to the table. She was telling them it was our regular table… would they mind moving over there? Kelly and I told her it was our last time—notre dernière fois—we were leaving to go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Austria and finally home to America. After Charley arrived, we sent Kelly up to the counter to take the couple’s picture and ask for their card. “Amitiés de Gerard et Annie,” he wrote on the card. “Compliments of Gerard and Annie.” Now we know their names.

The indoor dining room filled up quickly. Our food was good—it always is. I’ll especially miss the hot goat cheese salad, my normal entrée. We reluctantly finished our meals and started to stand up from the table. Annie came quickly over to us. “No, please, we want to offer you a digestif,” she said in French. Charley and I looked at each other—what was a digestif? We had no idea, but of course we accepted. Annie brought over the menu so we could choose our digestif: an after-dinner drink. We ordered Grand Marnier and Kelly had sirop, a syrup-flavored drink that’s a staple for French children. We sipped away at our regular table in the familiar cafe, enjoying our last Saturday afternoon in Apt.

Finally, all three of us walked to the counter to pay “l’addition” and say goodbye. Our wine—and the three after-dinner drinks—were complimentary. We reached across the counter to shake Annie’s hand, but then she and Gerard both came around the counter to say goodbye with the Luberon kiss-kiss-kiss. It was an emotional moment for me.

“Mommy,” Kelly asked as we walked out the door. “Why are you crying?”