Revue de presse
"Light and loving . . . a welcoming, happy book." —San Francisco Chronicle"Like returning to a country inn, where you know the owner, where they save your favorite room for you, and the bartender remembers what you drink. . . . Provence has been fortunate in its laureates." —The New York Times Book Review"Peter Mayle [is] something of a wonder . . . chronicling the scene around him in irresistible prose . . . the joys of a bountiful climate, brilliant sun and a splendid cuisine." —Time
Présentation de l'éditeur
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
Taking up where his beloved A Year in Provence leaves off, Peter Mayle offers us another funny, beautifully (and deliciously) evocative book about life in Provence. With tales only one who lives there could know—of finding gold coins while digging in the garden, of indulging in sumptuous feasts at truck stops—and with characters introduced with great affection and wit—the gendarme fallen from grace, the summer visitors ever trying the patience of even the most genial Provençaux, the straightforward dog "Boy"—Toujours Provence is a heart-warming portrait of a place where, if you can't quite "get away from it all," you can surely have a very good time trying.
Extrait
Les Invalides
I had been to a pharmacy in Apt for toothpaste and suntan oil, two innocent and perfectly healthy purchases. When I arrived home and took them out of the bag, I found that the girl who served me had included an instructive but puzzling gift. It was an expensively printed leaflet in full color. On the front was a picture of a snail sitting on the toilet. He looked doleful, as if he'd been there for some time without achieving anything worthwhile. His horns drooped. His eye was lackluster. Above this sad picture was printed La Constipation.
What had I done to deserve this? Did I look constipated? Or was the fact that I bought toothpaste and suntan oil somehow significant to the expert pharmacist's eye-a hint that all was not well in my digestive system? Maybe the girl knew something I didn't. I started to read the leaflet.
"Nothing," it said, "is more banal and more frequent than constipation." About 20 percent of the French population, so the writer claimed, suffered from the horrors of ballonnement and g?ne abdominale. And yet, to a casual observer like myself, there were no obvious signs of discomfort among the people on the streets, in the bars and caf?s, or even in the restaurants-where presumably 20 percent of the clientele tucking into two substantial meals a day were doing so in spite of their ballonnements. What fortitude in the face of adversity!
I had always thought of Provence as one of the healthier places in the world. The air is clean, the climate is dry, fresh fruit and vegetables are abundantly available, cooking is done with olive oil, stress doesn't seem to exist-there could hardly be a more wholesome set of circumstances. And everybody looks very well. But if 20 percent of those ruddy faces and hearty appetites were concealing the suffering caused by a traffic jam in the transit intestinal, what else might they be concealing? I decided to pay closer attention to Proven?al complaints and remedies, and gradually became aware that there is indeed a local affliction, which I think extends to the entire country. It is hypochondria.
A Frenchman never feels out of sorts; he has a crise. The most popular of these is a crise de foie, when the liver finally rebels against the punishment inflicted by pastis, five-course meals, and the tots of marc and the vin d'honneur served at everything from the opening of a car showroom to the annual meeting of the village Communist Party. The simple cure is no alcohol and plenty of mineral water, but a much more satisfactory solution-because it supports the idea of illness rather than admitting self-indulgence-is a trip to the pharmacy and a consultation with the sympathetic white-coated lady behind the counter.
I used to wonder why most pharmacies have
