But we stumble along, committing all kinds of sins against grammar and gender, making long and awkward detours to avoid the swamps of the subjunctive and the chasms in our vocabularies, hoping that our friends are not too appalled at the mauling we give their language. They are kind enough to say that our French doesn’t make them shudder. I doubt that, but there is no doubting their desire to help us feel at home, and there is a warmth to everyday life that is not just the sun.
That, at least, has been our experience. It obviously isn’t universal, and some people either don’t believe it, or even seem to resent it. We have been accused of the crime of cheerfulness, of turning a blind eye to minor problems, and of deliberately ignoring what is invariably described as the dark side of the Provençal character. This ominous cliché is wheeled out and festooned with words like dishonest, lazy, bigoted, greedy, and brutal. It is as if they are peculiarly local characteristics that the innocent foreigner—honest, industrious, unprejudiced, and generally blameless—will be exposed to for the first time in his life.
It is of course true that there are crooks and bigots in Provence, just as there are crooks and bigots everywhere. But we’ve been lucky, and Provence has been good to us. We will never be more than permanent visitors in someone else’s country, but we have been made welcome and happy. There are no regrets, few complaints, many pleasures.
Merci, Provence.