4 days ago
In Search of Anyplace but the ‘Most Charming Village in France'
I was finishing a monthlong book tour in France, traveling by train to new cities each night—many I'd never seen. Those 28 days revealed how much of France exists beyond Paris's allure.
With four days before returning home, I decided to rent a car and take a spontaneous road trip through southern France. No plans, just the open road. I initially planned to go alone, but then I learned Stephen, an old friend, was also in France, finishing work in Marseille. I suggested we share the adventure. His wife, also a friend, wasn't with us, and there was no romantic motive—just two friends seeking a quiet escape.
'Two for the Road,' minus the love story.
We started in Nice, picked up a car, and a local friend recommended we visit Èze, famous for its beauty. But Èze was swarmed with tourists: winding streets lined with shops selling soap and towels. I turned to Stephen. 'Let's avoid any place called the Most Charming French Village.'
We headed north, aimless but eager for small moments—good, affordable food and unexpected sights. My goal was to feel like a character in a French film, though I wasn't sure which one.
Soon, I saw a handmade sign reading 'Fromage' outside a farmhouse. Inside, a young woman looked like she'd stepped out of a Marcel Pagnol film, offering us chèvre. I asked about nearby bread; she pointed to a dirt road where cows ambled. No English, just locals, fresh cheese, and quiet charm.
Later, we drove to Gorges du Verdon, a winding river between steep cliffs, bustling with birds. For about $10, we rented a paddleboard, swam, and ate cheese and bread.
'What about the Côte d'Azur?' Stephen proposed. Who was I to argue?
In Villefranche-sur-Mer, we searched for Jean Cocteau's Chapel, famed for its frescoes. It was closed, so we swam near a small quay instead.
A good road trip has no plan, and we embraced that. Around 6 p.m., we searched for Airbnb. Usually, I'd spend hours hunting, but I let go. We found a simple place and settled in.
The novelist Joyce Maynards four-day road trip in the south of France was guided by pure spontaneity, which is how she ended up in Le Love Room. (Victoria Tentler-Krylov/The New York Times)
'A Dozen Oysters'
Next morning, we wandered into a village market. For about 10 euros, I bought a dozen oysters and a glass of Muscadet. Alain, behind the stand, handed me the oysters with flair, saying 'vive la France.' They might've been the best I'd ever had. He even sang as he shucked the second dozen. Stephen glanced at his watch.
Sometimes we had plans, then abandoned them. I wanted to see the Calanques near Cassis, but instead, swam and relaxed on rocks, napping in the sun.
We made a quick stop in Marseille at Maison Empereur, a historic hardware store. I wanted vintage bulbs and cast iron for cooking, but I only bought a feather duster, a pink hot water bottle, and some French jokes.
Le Love Room
Later, in Fayence—a quiet, charming town—the name evoked images of still-life paintings, but the town was peaceful. Flowers spilled from stone houses; fields stretched beyond. No tourists—just locals and one Airbnb: Le Love Room. After booking, Stephen suggested dinner. The only open restaurant was Les Temps des Cerises, a cozy bistro crowded with locals. We ordered house wine, foie gras with Calvados, and coq au vin—perfectly prepared.
Walking back, we passed an elderly woman leaning out her window with her cat, smiling and greeting us. We returned her wave.
Our Airbnb was in an old stone building. Climbing the narrow, steep stairs, we entered Le Love Room, dimly lit with red bulbs. Inside, hooks held whips. The decor was eccentric but spotlessly clean. A machine offered condoms and accessories. The owner thought of everything.
Stephen and I settled for the night—he in the bed, I on a leather couch. I laid out my toothbrush; he pulled out his book. Just two friends, calling it a night.
The next morning, we returned the car early, heading for Charles de Gaulle. Passing the same woman in her window with her cat, I waved, but she didn't respond. 'She probably knows where we spent the night,' I said. We quickly looked away.
Stephen laughed. 'I'll tell my wife I was just sightseeing,' he said as we headed back out on the road—our brief, surprising escape from the 'Most Charming Village in France' confirmed: sometimes, the best moments happen without a plan. —NYT
