that become fixed in my mind of France, of Provence, of a beautiful time.
Walking in the field of grass outside our house, seeing dozens of grass hoppers fleeing as I walked as if I was a giant in Sinbad. Everywhere we go, people walking, bicycling, motorcycling, driving, with baguettes. No meal is complete without bread here - no butter - but must have bread. It is in such stark contrast to our fear in the US of carbs.
Reading last night about Bastille Day celebrations throughout France including the annual ritual of car burning in Paris. This year was a mere 300 cars.
Pizza trucks baking pizza in town squares and parking lots in so many towns as we drive throughout Provence.
Fields of Lavender and Sunflowers lining the roads.
Hay being grown and harvested, into huge rolls of hay like enormous spools of beige colored threat stacked, ready to be placed on trucks.
Wooden cartons on trucks and lined up in the fields, ready for the harvest of melons, tomatoes, plums, apples, nectarines, figs, eggplant, squash, and so much more. The fields are so prolific it is hard to imagine and believe.
The sound and smell of water flooding the irrigation channels, flooding the fields, frogs jumping to escape.
The pervasive throbbing of cicadas, as the heartbeat of Provence.
It is a country of endless beauty only pieces of which appear in so many paintings and films.
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