Arrivals

Your First Taste of Provence

She grabs your attention with an apéritif: the view as you fly over the Alps towards the azure sea until you touch down in Nice.

After a few minutes, she opens her doors.

You walk down the stairs, luggage in hand. 

Her sun greets you, "Bonjour!" You smile back, her warmth stoking your childlike excitement.

On land, you gently resist your shoes melting as you walk the tarmac to the bus.

Onboard, you breathe in shallowly, securing her close air before all consume it.

You gain speed as you exit the bus for the airport.

The escalator is under repair, and your bags, now more like stones, slow your progress as you climb the stairs. 

Breathless, with a crowd of passengers behind, you enter the airport - you've made it! 

You brace, waiting for a blast of air conditioning. 

Your passport is your only fan; you slowly succumb and begin to peel off all acceptable layers. 

In the long glass tunnel, you become a part of a snake looping around the airport stanchions.

It's noon in Nice in August.

Our plane, carrying holidaymakers and me, an American living in Provence, has just arrived from London.

I am dressed for the occasion: sandals, thin, white cotton trousers, layers of deodorant under my navy linen tank top and pink linen blazer, a crossbody purse, sunglasses, light luggage, and well-honed patience.

I wait quietly, enjoying a moment of silence. 

But, soon, the buzzing begins.

"Oh my god, look at this line." 

"Doesn't anyone work here?"

Things seem to go faster in Provence if you slow yourself down, too, I think to myself.

So, like a great hostess, I serve them an amuse bouche: "It's noon in Nice–lunchtime. They are likely looking for people to work the passport booths. Don't worry, someone will show, and we'll get moving soon," I calmly coached.

Chuckles, then silence ensues, only to be interrupted by more buzzing. 

"Don't they have machines in this airport?" someone inevitably asks.

"Well, I fly often and know that they've been installing and testing them for a few weeks," I reply, "But they're not using them yet."

As if on cue, we round the corner. Empty machines stand ready, each marked with a digital red 'X' to ensure you understand they are not in service.

"I want to get to my hotel," a voice grumbles. 

"Look! Here comes someone. Perhaps we will begin to move now!" Solidarity arrives just in time.

"EU passports," shouts the beautiful French accent, "Anyone with an EU passport?...Ouí," she says to one person, "Okay, come this way with me." And she takes the lucky passenger to the front, where there's no line.

Brexit ensured England isn't on this menu.

Another ten minutes pass by. More clothing is discarded. Pools form under pits.  

I stand calm, relaxed, with complete faith in the process. Since moving from London to Provence, I've consumed this menu hundreds of times in the past few years. 

"I can't believe we have to wait here in the heat," whines the man beside me.

It’s time for me to serve the entrée: "You came to Provence to slow down." 

"You're right," he says, "I did. We all did. But I didn't think that would begin in the airport."

"Things seem to go faster in Provence if you slow yourself down too," I counsel.

And then I wait again–and it finally begins to happen.

The skin around your face, jaw, and neck softens. Your shoulders relax. You may even smile. 

You've just experienced your first taste of Provence.