Lost in the Luberon

On our trip to France, my boyfriend and I spent a fair amount of time exploring Provence. We discovered a fantastic cheese shop in Arles, as well as a great restaurant entitled Le Cilantro, drank a lot of wine, and realized that despite name recognition, Orange is a town best skipped. But perhaps our most interesting story involves the day we decided to let Peter Mayle dictate our activities. What can I say? We didn't have a year, but the Luberon sounded like a great area to explore.

We decided to venture to Bonnieux, the capital of the Luberon, and so on what would turn out to be a very warm day, we boarded a train from Arles to Avignon. Once in Avignon, we learned that we could take a bus to Bonnieux. After waiting forty-five minutes in a dirty bus station more reminiscent of New York than Provence, we boarded the bus that would eventually take us to our destination. We passed through beautiful countryside and one town that was having a lovely Sunday market, but as we continued on, town activity seemed to stall. We'd drop a passenger off into a quiet town and move on. When the bus driver announced Bonnieux and we were the only ones exiting, I should have realized what was in store. Sadly there was no Sunday market awaiting us, only a desolate little covered bench on the side of a French highway, no town in sight.

Scanning our surroundings, we decided the actual town couldn't be too far, so we did the only thing we could- we started walking. The first few minutes were fine; cars seemed to be heading in the same direction and things hadn't yet turned uphill. However, after walking five kilometers on the side of an empty road in blaring sunlight with no town in sight, things had started to look bleak… until we saw a sign for Bonnieux! Although when it informed us that the actual town was still eight kilometers away, things weren't exactly looking up. We mustered our tourist’s enthusiasm and the promise of a good meal, and continued walking. While trudging along, I focused on the delightfully satisfying crunch I made as I walked through the roadside white flowers. Well that is, it was satisfying until I realized I was crushing thousands of tiny white snails attached to blades of grass. After that, I took to walking in the road with my shirt off, avoiding passing cars while Mark and I discussed how amazing it would be if some French villa/vineyard owner decided to give us his home-- unlikely, I know, but we may have been suffering from heatstroke at that point.

The final uphill push into the town was sweaty and brutal, but led us into a beautiful hill town. Starving, we explored the winding streets looking for a place to eat. A sunny, flowering vine enclosed restaurant patio beckoned us in. Just as I was salivating over the rabbit preparation, a server informed us that if we didn't have a reservation he couldn't accommodate us. Sadly this reaction met us at every other restaurant we tried to wander into. Rejection had forced our hands. If we couldn't eat, well then, damn it we would drink! Just as we were about to purchase a bottle of warm wine, a beam of light must have fallen upon us because we passed an emptier outdoor restaurant. Mark asked if they had an open table and cue the Hallelujah chorus, they did.

Finally seated and enjoying a pitcher of cold white wine and lunch, we took to people watching. There was the child who ordered a plate of snails (only in France) and "le petit gourmand," the little dog that would beg for food, but refuse to eat anything other than steak (again, only in France). Sated, we ordered another pitcher of wine determined to enjoy the fruits of our walking. However it eventually dawned on us that we had no idea how we were going to get back to our hotel in Arles. Did the bus pick up at the same highway bench it dropped us off? Were there more pickups? Would we be stuck in this town for the night? Conveniently at this time we noticed a couple clutching a Rick Steves book like the bible. They had to be American! We asked to borrow their book and got a little more out of the deal. It turned out the couple was from our college town and had a car. They offered at first to drive us back to the bus stop (?) but then said they could drop us off at the train station in Aix-en-Provence if we didn't mind making a small detour to Buoux. Score.

On the way to our new friends' car, we passed a parade of bikers tossing hard candy into the streets. I was nearly clocked in the eye by a piece of rogue candy and decide candy tossing is better in theory than practice. Yet it was no matter because we had a ride! Distracted by passing vineyards and blue sky, we realized that we'd been driving twenty minutes in the wrong direction. I didn't care because I was full and buzzed and avoiding snail roads; it was all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows to me.

After a mutual group decision, we bypassed Buoux and were dropped off at the Aix train station. There we learned that we had to take a bus to Marseilles and from there we could take a train back to Arles. Sold the tickets at 5:14pm, we walked out to the bus platform only to see a bus pulling away. Cue the dust clouds. Ok, perhaps a little dramatic, but you get the picture. Mark and I looked at each other and then down at our tickets for the 5:15 bus. Luckily the station told us to just jump on the next bus.

We waited an hour for the bus to Marseilles and were greeted by the world's most aggressive bus driver. Thankfully his road rage was not directed at us. Although when he pulled out his finger gun and started shooting at other drivers and yelling at them in French, I didn't know whether to laugh or worry. I was just happy we weren't in Detroit. While slightly erratic, our bus driver did get us to Marseilles safely. From there we stocked up on "Hit mini" cookies and caught the train back to Arles.

Exhausted and trailing crumbs of cookies, we finally made it back to our hotel and the only thing I could manage to do was laugh.