My Twenty-five Years in Provence | Mayle, Peter

Kurze Beschreibung
The final book from the beloved author of A Year in Provence: a one-of-a-kind guide to Provence, and a lasting love letter. Provence--the charming and indelible parade of village life, the sheer beauty, the ancient history. Recollections from twenty-five years in France--lessons learned, culinary delights, and changes observed.

Lange Beschreibung
From the moment Peter Mayle and his wife, Jennie, uprooted their lives in England and crossed the Channel permanently, they never looked back. Here the beloved author of A Year in Provence pays tribute to the most endearing and enduring aspects of his life in France the charming and indelible parade of village life, the sheer beauty, the ancient history. He celebrates the café and lists some of his favorites; identifies his favorite villages, restaurants, and open-air markets; and recounts his most memorable meals. A celebration of twenty-five years of Provençal living of lessons learned and changes observed with his final book Mayle has crafted a lasting love letter to his adopted home, marked by his signature warmth, wit, and humor.

Rezensierung
Full of thoughtful reflections and trenchant observations. . . . It s wonderful to get to go on one more journey with [Mayle] and remember why we fell in love with him and his writing. San Francisco Chronicle

Idyllic. USA Today

A warm, nostalgia-soaked look at the place [Mayle] loved so dearly, packed with fond recollections of the pleasures of life in the region, from pastis to Pétanque. Travel + Leisure
 
[Mayle s] keen eye and wit are much on display. The Philadelphia Inquirer

[A] well-loved writer s contented recap of a life well lived. . . . Mayle set a new course for travel writing. Minneapolis Star Tribune
 
Delightfully quaint anecdotes from the years since Mayle and his wife, Jennie, escaped office life in New York and London in the 1980s for a simpler, sunnier life in Provence. . . . Composed in a uniformly bright and jocular voice, this is a breezy valedictory note for a much admired writer. Publishers Weekly
 
A welcome, if bittersweet, victory lap. The book s final sentences are particularly resonant of a life well lived: I must go. Lunch is calling. The New York Times Book Review
 
Mayle takes readers back to the idyllic, slow-paced and occasionally befuddling world that [he] first wrote about in his best-selling memoir A Year in Provence. . . . [My Twenty-Five Years in Provence] treads delightfully familiar ground for fans who succumbed to the charms of Mayle s first book. The new volume transports readers to the South of France through the eyes of an Englishman who never ceases to marvel at the sunshine, fine food and sometimes inscrutable culture of his adopted turf. Associated Press
 
In this final memoir, Mayle returns to the beginning. . . . This is France, so of course food and wine play a large part in his writing. But while Mayle can pen a mouthwatering description of bouillabaisse, what has always drawn readers to his writing are his loving portraits of people, community and the Provençal way of life. BookPage
 
Mayle s mellowest book, touched by the tenderness of a writer summing himself up. . . . Even in moments of majesty, Mayle s puckish humor prevails. The Wall Street Journal
 
One of the most successful and influential memoirists of our era. . . . [Mayle s writings] not only inspired people to explore the French countryside, they encouraged travelers to explore the world differently. Toronto Star
 
Peter Mayle may have single-handedly created an American and British obsession with the French region of Provence when he published A Year in Provence in 1989. . . . [His] latest book . . . retains the charm of the original. His gentle humor and precise descriptions bring to life a region where time is relative and old ways persist. The Providence Journal
 
A warm, sentimental, vicarious glimpse into a life well lived. Canadian Living
 
[An] amusing, pleasantly written, and easily read book. The New Criterion
 
Confirmation that daydreams do come true. . . . Mayle had the gumption to do what many only daydream about: run away to a paradise. Library Journal

Buchausschnitt
Chapter One

Early Days

It started with a lucky break in the weather. My wife, Jennie, and I had escaped the rigors of the English summer to spend two idyllic weeks on the Côte d Azur, which according to popular rumor enjoys three hundred days of sunshine a year. But not that year. It rained, hard and often. The beach umbrellas hung in sodden clumps. The plagistes, those bronzed young men who patrol the beaches, were huddled in their huts, their shorts soaked. Cafés along the Promenade des Anglais were filled with forlorn parents and fractious children who had been promised a day splashing about in the sea. In the International Herald Tribune, there was news of a heat wave in En­gland. As we prepared to leave Nice, we hoped the heat would last until we got home.

A situation like this requires some kind of consolation. We considered going across the border to Italy, hopping on the ferry to Corsica, or making the long drive down to Barcelona in time for dinner. But in the end, we decided on exploring France. Instead of taking the autoroutes, we would stay on the smaller secondary roads. Even in the rain, we thought, they would be prettier and more interesting than joining the procession of trucks and caravans on the main highway to the north. And besides, our experience of France had been confined to Paris and the coast. This would be virgin territory.

In those days, long before GPS, we used maps. And one of the few familiar names we found was Aix-­en-­Provence. There would be restaurants in Aix. There might even be sunshine. Off we went.

The Route Nationale 7, I think, is the French equivalent of Route 66, which the old song taught us was where to go to get our kicks. The kicks on the RN 7 used to be at their height each year in July and August, when most of Paris took what was then the main road down to the south. It, too, had its famous song, performed by Charles Trenet, the lyrics dripping with le soleil, le ciel bleu, les vacances, and the promise of wonderful times.

The reality didn t quite live up to the song. The RN 7 is a perpetually busy road, and was filled on that particular day with many of the thousands of trucks that crisscross France, often driven by very large men who look down on passing cars with a faintly menacing air. Overtake me at your peril, they seemed to be thinking. And if you value your life, don t change lanes too suddenly.

Gradually, the rain was beginning to thin out, and by the time we reached Aix, the gray sky was showing hopeful fragments of blue; to celebrate, we decided to go to the oldest brasserie in town, Les Deux Garçons. Founded in 1792, this is more of a historic monument than a mere bar. Past customers include Cézanne and Zola, Picasso and Pagnol, Piaf and Camus. The terrace overlooks the Cours Mirabeau, the most handsome street in Aix, lined with plane trees and dotted with fountains, the perfect spot to watch the passing crowd. There was a moment when the normal air of conviviality had been disturbed by a shooting in one of the toilets. A vile rumor that the culprit was a waiter who had been deprived of his tip was found to be untrue, and life returned to normal.

Enjoying a glass of rosé, we took another look at the map, where we found a scattering of villages on the northern side of the Luberon mountains. This looked promising, and it was more or less on our way back to En­gland. After a proper Provençal lunch of rabbit in mustard sauce and an ultra-­fine apple tart, served by a waiter who could have come out of central ­casting ­white apron, generous belly, and memorably luxuriant ­moustache ­we felt ready for any mountain we might come across.

The further we drove from Aix, the more blue sky we saw pushing away the clouds. There was no sun yet, but it was turning into a pleasant afternoon, made even more pleasant by