Wild things

Every chance I get I take the girls out. We find ourselves alone in wild places; they are all around here. We remark on the bumpy lumps of the field of wheat that has just been churned up by a farmer. We watch fall stain the leaves of the vineyards red and orange and amber. We stand outside in the mistral wind and let it swell in and out of our ears; we yell to hear each other. The wind charges into our bodies. We squint to see.

I watch them run together in an alley of sycamore trees - the symbol of the south of France.

And all under a Provence sky.

Un bain avec Romy

Halloween

When we first moved to France, Colette’s biggest concern was that there wouldn’t be Halloween. We found a celebration last year at a nearby chateau, but it turned out to be a bit too scary for little ones. So indeed, this year we were all a bit anxious to find the right Halloween party. The night of Halloween one of Colette’s classmates invited us to his neighborhood in our village. It was about 15 French kids in a pack. They were quite menacing, roaming the dark streets approaching the gated houses shouted “des bonbons, des bonbons” - all in unison. I wanted to correct their approach, but I felt like it wasn't my place.



Thankfully, there is a large anglo-community in a nearby village in the Luberon that celebrates Halloween in its true sense. Our friends in Lourmarin invited us to come there to treat the girls to a proper Provence Halloween. The whole town was in the streets, everyone was saying trick-or-treat and candy was overflowing in every doorway. No dark gates or windows. Costumes galore. All three girls were just delighted.