One Sunday in the South of France

Spring is in full swing, so my husband and I decided to pack an icebox with food and drinks, and head off to do a bit of driving in our battered old Peugeot.

Can you see me?

On the road from our village to Arles, we were slowed down by the occasional trailer and a few cars overloaded with either bikes or kayaks -- a sure sign that the tourist season is about to begin here in the south -- but we were soon enough at Fontvieille, where there was a big vintage market going on. (Picture me here, jumping around with delight.)

"Where's the lace?" was my question.

I picked up a few lengths of lace and a dozen vintage crocheted ribbons that I can't wait to sew on to my pillows. My husband went for an enormous fruit bowl handcarved from cork, which I found nice, and a war helmet, which I found ugly, but which he assured me we weren't going to keep around the house. It was going to be a gift for his friend, Coq, bartender at Perroquet, a café at our main village square. The man might just be crazy enough to wear the thing as he putt-putts around on his little moped.

Late in the afternoon we drove to Barrage de Peiroou at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, where we had a picnic of bread, cheese, stuffed peppers, and various charcuteries.

Bits of bread floating around my husband's

glass of rose wine . He's messy like that.

We spent the rest of our time watching an old woman talk to her brown boxer like it was her own baby. "Nice dogs, but ugly," husband pronounced. "They look like they all decided one day to run into traffic and ram their noses into a truck."

With that thought, we got back into the car to drive home. Part of the way, we were under an umbrella of plane trees, which I know I could have taken a better picture of, except I was afraid that with my hand extended out the window like that, the wind would snatch the camera right out of my hand.

Direction: home.