Sublime

we went some months later to see Lucien Ferrero again, this time at his office outside Grasse. I’d never been to Grasse; all I knew was that it had been the center of the perfume industry in France since the early nineteenth century.

every village celebrated August in one way or another—with a boules tournament or a donkey race or a barbecue or a fair, with colored lights strung in the plane trees and dance floors made from wooden planks laid across scaffolding, with gypsies and accordion players and souvenir sellers and rock groups from as far away as Avignon.

“This is special to our region,” he said. “We call it aligot.” I should warn you about aligot. It is wonderfully tasty, with a creamy texture and an impressive substance to it, almost as dense as toffee. It slips down so easily that it seems a crime not to have a second helping. Only sometime later are you aware of the unmistakable sensation that

ravioli, the catch of the day, and huge crocks of fresh, steamed mussels. Young chef Marco cooks with charisma, while his wife, Anna, takes good care of the guests. This place is quieter, buried in the old town two blocks off the beach, and has covered tables out front for people-watching (€10-13 pastas and pizza, €15-17 secondi, 10 percent

The Fitzgeralds rented a fifth-floor walk-up in Paris that spring, and in May, 1925, he and Ernest Hemingway met.

Drive on, past l’Observatoire de Haute Provence, where they say you can breathe the clearest, purest air in France, and head for the foothills of the Montagne de Lure. There, set in a bowl of lavender fields, you will find Lardiers, a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants. Their houses are bunched around the Mairie and the Café de la Lavande—the

Martigny-les-Bains is almost as far northeast as you can go without leaving France.