grapes

When we arrived in Provence, the grape vines had no leaves at all. They were just gnarled old stumps, twisted against the wires, manifestations of the difficult growing conditions: chaulky, rocky soil and hot, dry summers. They looked as if they would never produce anything, let alone sumptuous, sweet fruit.


After only a week, tiny leaves appeared on all the grapevines, simultaneously, at the same time that all the cherry blossoms disappeared. Overnight, the landscape changed from one of white fluffy flowers to one of tiny green buds.



A week later, and the grape fields were awash in various colors of green and red as the grape plants grew profusely, new growth dwarfed the old vines, and even tiny grapes appeared in the forks of the branches. It looks like it could be a magical year for grapes in this region.


This is a view of Venasque, our village, from grape fields a few kilometers away. One of my very favorite things about Provence is that the fields aren't square. They're tucked into hillsides, between tree lines, along streams. Their shapes are organic and sensitive to the landscape. They're gentle and elegant, and not efficient and regimented. Everywhere we walk or drive we see a landscape true to the underlying land. It's a feeling that is reflected in all the daily interactions we have with the locals, who value human interaction more than efficiency, and who take the time to enjoy their life, rather than trying to squeeze every last minute or dollar out of it. It's very easy to complain that the French aren't efficient, but after a while, the lack of efficiency is relaxing, comforting, livable. There is no question that, as over-caffeinated and impatient as I am naturally, I'd rather live here, live this way, than live the American life, even one as relaxed as Bellingham's life is.