France Is Beautiful. Until Biology Betrays You.
During our month in Avignon, we tried to explore as much of Provence as we could within an hour or so from the place we were renting.
One day we went over to the village of Eygalières for lunch. I had been the week before on the day I bought our used car. Our friends Bernard and Virginie from Burgundy were staying there with their friends from England. Bernard was telling me that Eygalières had become an area for the rich and famous. While driving back to his friends place, out in the middle of nowhere, he pointed out his next door neighbor’s house. He said, “that’s Hugh Grant’s house”. Being French, Bernard didn’t get my Divine Brown reference.
It was a neat area, and it had a really pretty town that D would like.
We got there a little before our lunch reservations, so we got a chance to wander around a little bit. Being midweek, not a market day and a little drizzly, there weren’t a lot of people in town. Lunch was excellent. We had a little wine. Well, I did, and maybe a beer.
We then decided to stop in Saint-Rémy on the way back. That’s another cool town.
We got there around 2 oclock. The place was packed. Wednesday is market day. There is a ring road that circles the town. We drove along that for about 15-20 minutes looking for a spot. We also went down some side streets and tried one parking lot that had pylon jump up and hit the back bumper of the one week old used car. We decided to head back to the rental and visit St. Remy another day.
About 5 minutes after leaving town and 30 minutes to the rental, I hit the danger zone. I really had to go to the bathroom bad.
As you probably know, there are not a ton of fast-food restaurants to stop into in many parts of France. No easy bathroom access. That is probably why I see men peeing on the side of the road conspicuously all the time. There is nowhere else to go.
A couple of minutes later, things are getting tense. I saw a cheese and fine food shop. My plan was to buy some goodies and then talk my way into the back of the shop to use their bathroom. As usual, the clerk at the store was very friendly, especially after she heard that I was from California. She said she only spoke a little English.
I asked about the local cheeses, her favorite especially. Always be selling. Smiling, she pointed to a couple of local goat cheeses that she and the town were very proud of. I quickly said, “I’ll take them both”. She hesitates and wryly said “Oh”. “I will take that charcuterie there too”.
EVERYTHING WAS GOING GREAT—
UNTIL IT WASN’T. A 300-YEAR-OLD WALL SHOWED ME IT HAD MORE STAYING POWER THAN I DID.
She was totally sold now. After ringing up the order, it was a little more expensive than I had hoped, she was very proud of selling me her wares. Now was my shot. “la toilette, s’il vous plaît?” She looked a me and said “Non, je suis desolate”. I was quickly reminded that I was still in the danger zone. All pretense of speaking French was gone now. “Is there one nearby?” With a shrug, I got back “non”.
Oh no.
I got back in the car. D asked me if I found a bathroom because she had to go too now. “No, I am dying. We are going to have to tough it out.”
Thirty minutes. Traffic circles. Manual transmission. Middle aged. Yikes.
We finally got back to our neighborhood. Me sweating and the world around me fuzzy. The driveway to the place was crazy tough to get into. It is best to back up. There is a slight turn and a hill to navigate at the same time you go through the stone gate. The pavement was a little wet. I turned the car around and started to back up.
I had the wrong angle. Had to try again. I got the angle to where I thought I would be good. Letting off the clutch, my body started to let something else go. The car lurched back, D shrieked, there was a loud bang and the passenger side mirror was hanging off the one week old car.
D yells “why did you do that?” I gasped back, “I have to go the bathroom so bad, I almost wet my pants.” Exasperated, she calmly said, “why didn’t you go over there?” pointing around the secluded wall. Always one to follow directions, I jumped out of the car as fast as I can. The mirror could wait.
Phew. One mirror down. But worth it now.
Getting back to the car. Head hung low. I said “I think I can fix it”
We got back up the driveway and went into the house. D was not happy.
A couple of hours later, I went back down to visit my work. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. The glass part of the mirror, although a little scratched, was still attached to the car and the frame. The outer housing was hanging sadly. Messing around with it a little bit, I was able to snap it back into place. Walking back up to the steps, I proudly announced “fixed it”.
Two days later, we decided to check out the awesome Friday market in Lourmarin. We jumped on the A7. As soon as we got to 110 kmh, I noticed the mirror move just a smidge. The speed limit changed to 130 kmh. By this time, D started to notice the mirror. I said, ‘I think it’ll be fine.’ I pulled over anyway... I pulled over anyway to check it. It still seemed ok to me.
Getting back on the road, at 110 kmh, it seemed ok this time. Sigh of relief. Now, up to 130 kmh, still ok. Then, D yelled “Paul!”
Looking in the rear view mirror, I was amazed how fast that mirror moved away from us at 130 kmh.
ONE SURPRISING INSIGHT
You think you’ve seen tomatoes. You haven’t.
Not until you’ve stood in a Grand Frais in May with 17 varieties staring you down—each with a sign boasting its French origin and personality like it’s running for office.
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France has over 400 heirloom varieties of tomatoes, with dozens commonly found at markets or specialty grocers like Grand Frais during peak season.
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The season starts as early as April in the south but really hits its stride from June to September, with local varieties like Noire de Crimée, Ananas, Green Zebra, and Cœur de Bœuf stealing the show.
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Tomato pride is serious business—even the cherry tomato has six subtypes here (round, oblong, yellow, black, on the vine, and solo stars).
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You’ll find flavor descriptions on the labels like “acidulé,” “fruité,” or “très parfumé,” as if you're buying wine.
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And yes, you will absolutely be judged for using the wrong tomato in a salad versus a sauce.
ONE THING TO SEE
A Perfect Little Painting That’s Somehow Real
Honfleur is so picturesque it almost feels fake. The harbor is lined with impossibly tall, skinny buildings painted in moody tones, their reflections shimmering in the water like they’re trying to outdo each other. Boats bob quietly, artists perch on stools with sketchpads, and the smell of galettes and sea air wafts through narrow cobbled lanes.
It’s stunning. And crowded. But somehow still manages to feel charming rather than chaotic.
We spent the weekend at L'Absinthe Hôtel, which sits right on the harbor and couldn’t have been better. Had a great meal at L’Escale, and yes, a truly fantastic burger at Mamie Louise. It’s a place that rewards slow wandering, long lunches, and leaning into the postcard-perfect vibes.
Like Saint-Rémy, it’s more of a “visit and soak it in” spot than a place we’d live full-time. But for a weekend? It’s magic.
ONE FRENCH QUIRK
They Will Literally Put a Tow Hitch on Anything
Some people accessorize with roof racks. In France, it’s tow hitches—on everything. City cars. Microcars. The occasional old Peugeot 106 that looks like it’s powered by hope and leftover wine fumes. Doesn’t matter. Throw a hitch on it and call it a utility vehicle.
I once saw a Clio pulling a trailer that may have weighed more than the car. I didn’t stick around to see how it ended, but I’m guessing not well. There’s a special kind of optimism involved in thinking your 3-cylinder Suzuki can tow a boat.
The best part? I snapped this gem in the wild last week. This feels illegal, and yet... very French.
Yes, that’s a Suzuki Baleno with a tow hitch. No, I don’t know what it was towing. Possibly its own ego.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
P.S. — If something in this issue made you laugh, cringe in sympathy, or suddenly feel like buying goat cheese and a side mirror, hit reply and let me know.
This newsletter is still finding its rhythm, and your feedback helps shape it. Got questions about visas? Dogs? French driving habits? Or just want to know where to find a solid burger in a coastal town full of painters? I’m game.
Thanks for being here. Really.
— Paul
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