V and I are currently spending a few days in Provence, in the south of France, to celebrate Bastille day and the birthdays of a couple of friends. It’s sunny and hot and dusty. The Mistral has been blowing since we arrived.
Wikipedia tells me the the Mistral is a cold wind that blows down from the Alps. I can’t feel anything but a hot wind, though, that picks up anything and everything in its path. Leaves, towels left hanging, ridiculous pool toys, and the dust. Oh, the dust. We’re staying in a tent in the backyard and our bed is filled with dust. Our suitcases are filled with dusty clothes. We’re brushing particulate matter out of our eyes every few minutes.
Despite the dust it’s beautiful. The Mistral also serves to blow the clouds away and the sun is hot and strong, the skies clear and as blue as you can imagine. The backyard has a bountiful yellow plum tree and I dream of the tarts I could make if it were mine. Afternoon naps are a given and are plentiful.
The town is quaint, and is lazy and bustling at the same time.
V senses the Mediterranean pulse of life and feels so at home. He’s inspired to retire to the south of France. Only if there’s a pool, I tell him, and a sea view.