Let’s be honest, a week in Provence conjures images so aggressively charming, they practically come with their own Instagram filter. Rolling hills, villages that look suspiciously like movie sets, and enough rosé to float a small armada – the travel influencer fantasy. While my life’s soundtrack remains stubbornly free of chill lo-fi beats (a work in progress, I assure you), my recent seven-day frolic in southern France absolutely delivered on the charm, the views, and a truly heroic amount of blush-colored wine.

The Arrival: Jet Lag and Architectural Admiration

It all kicked off with the classic travel two-step: the transatlantic red-eye from Atlanta to Paris (miraculously quiet this time, leading to suspicions I was accidentally slipped a sedative), the obligatory Parisian airport marathon, and the sleek TGV – France’s bullet train of delightful efficiency – shooting me towards sunshine and sunflowers. My initial crash pad? The ancient and utterly captivating city of Avignon.

Those first 48 hours were a glorious mess – a delicious tumble through history at the Palais des Papes (those popes clearly had better interior designers than I do), getting delightfully lost in the sensory overload of Les Halles market (pretty sure I achieved peak cheese and olive saturation), and a near-spiritual experience (quickly followed by soul-crushing disappointment) at the perpetually shuttered Boulangerie Bèla Ciao.

Caffeine salvation came courtesy of the delightful Buna Cafe (their matcha latte was a genuine revelation), punctuated by a surprisingly successful raid of the Monoprix clothing section (apparently, my travel wardrobe was even sadder than I realized). Evenings in Avignon were a culinary adventure, from the chic Le Joat to the truly mind-blowing lamb and pâté at Fou de Fafa. And naturally, no Avignon initiation is complete without a slightly tipsy spin on the vintage carousel at Place de l’Horloge – pure, unadulterated, slightly dizzying joy.

The Great Viking Car Adventure

Then came the moment I channeled my inner Viking and wrestled a Volvo XC90 – a vehicle roughly the size of a small yacht – through the charming medieval death trap that is Saint-Rémy-de-Provence’s street grid. Fresh off a harrowing escape from the car rental center (where I’m convinced I accidentally sat in on a staff meeting while desperately searching for the exit), I hit the road feeling like a conquering hero.

This delusion lasted approximately six minutes – precisely until I realized the streets in Saint-Rémy were designed during an era when “traffic” meant two particularly stubborn goats politely refusing to yield. What ensued was part breathtaking scenic drive, part high-stakes reverse-parking simulator, with a generous sprinkling of “wait, is that my side mirror still attached?” drama.

The sprawling villa we rented felt like a well-deserved reward for surviving the automotive obstacle course – a private oasis where the pool water shimmered invitingly under the relentless Provençal sun. Days in Saint-Rémy dissolved into a blissful haze of wandering through art galleries (mostly nodding knowingly at things I didn’t understand), indulging in what felt like my body weight in rosé at sun-drenched cafes, and generally absorbing the tranquil vibes. My stress levels plummeted faster than the price of gas (which, incidentally, was terrifying).

One-Way Streets and Two-Way Embarrassment

The next morning, caffeine was the top priority, efficiently delivered by Colette Coffee Shop in Saint-Rémy. Fully charged, we crammed ourselves back into the land-yacht and pointed it towards lunch in Saint-Saturnin-lès-Apt. The drive itself was a postcard come to life, all winding roads and ridiculously picturesque landscapes. Lunch at Le Saint Hubert was a proper local affair, the kind of place where the food tastes like it’s been made with love (and possibly a secret family recipe involving copious amounts of butter).

Our afternoon continued with a pilgrimage to the perched village of Gordes. This place is so aggressively beautiful, it probably has its own dedicated fan club. We wandered through its impossibly narrow, winding streets, soaking in the atmosphere before collapsing at a local café for a much-needed coffee infusion.

Refueled and ready for more charming villages, we set our sights on Ménerbes. Now, this is where things took a slightly… comedic turn. Apparently, the road leading up to Ménerbes operates on a rather firm one-way system, a fact that my navigation (and, let’s be honest, my brain) decided to completely ignore.

Cue a rather embarrassing (but undeniably hilarious) attempt to ascend the one-way street, resulting in a minor traffic jam and several very confused (and possibly slightly judgmental) French drivers. Realizing the error of our ways (and the increasingly frantic honking), we strategically abandoned the Volvo at the bottom of the hill and opted for a more pedestrian approach. The reward for our accidental uphill trek? Reaching the summit and stumbling upon the utterly delightful courtyard of Maison de la Truffe et du Vin, where we promptly ordered a well-deserved glass of local wine and a cheese board featuring enough truffle to make a pig weep with joy.

Market Days and Wine Ways

Wednesday morning in St-Rémy heralded the arrival of market day! The Wednesday market was indeed a sprawling spectacle, a vibrant tapestry of local produce, artisanal crafts, and enough tempting treats to derail any diet. After successfully navigating the bustling stalls (and probably buying more lavender soap than any one person needs), we indulged in some classic French crêpes right in the heart of town – a perfect sweet interlude.

The afternoon took a more serene turn as we drove to the tranquil Saint-Paul Mausoleum, surrounded by landscapes that looked like they’d been painted by Monet after a particularly good lunch. Following this dose of culture, we experienced the region’s liquid gold with a delightful olive oil tasting, savoring the distinct nuances of Provence’s most prized oil.

Our Provençal wine adventure reached its apex in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, where the real magic happened. We graced two wineries with our presence: Maison Bouachon and Mas Saint Louis. The wines were, in a word, fantastic – predominantly Grenache-based with a harmonious supporting cast of other grapes. My palate was doing the happy dance.

The Reluctant Return

As the week drew to a close, the “rosé-colored glasses” were firmly in place, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. The TGV whisked us from Avignon to Paris faster than you can say “zut alors!” Car returned (miraculously unscathed), city embraced!

Our Parisian finale involved a serious tea pilgrimage at MARIAGE FRÈRES – so many scents, so little luggage space. Decisions were made, precious leaves secured (enough Earl Grey to get me through a small apocalypse). Next stop: Alain Ducasse for chocolate so divine, it almost made the impending flight home bearable (almost).

Paris to Atlanta, then the connection home to sunshine and the daily grind. But fear not, the memories (and the carefully chosen teas and chocolates) are tucked safely away, ready to be deployed for moments of existential longing for a good pain au chocolat.

My week of “Provence-ing It Up” wasn’t just a vacation; it was an immersion into a slower, more delicious way of life, a celebration of simple pleasures, and a firm reminder that sometimes, all you need is sunshine, good food, good wine, and the scent of lavender to reset your soul (and maybe invest in a GPS with a better understanding of European one-way streets).