COLLISION 00031
Lourmarin is often referred to as one of the prettiest villages in France. It is quite small relative to Provence’s other headline destinations, with just over 1,000 people officially calling it home. It stirs to life midday with the kind of energy that can only come from being one of those places in the world people simply love to flock to.
While an occasional car passes through the town’s historic center early in the morning or creeps through reluctantly during the rush of day, the village’s two main streets are primarily pedestrian. Restaurant patios cluster around the central intersection, which was designed, it seems, for all of the stereotypical French pastimes: people-watching, rosé- and cappuccino-sipping and, of course, long, leisurely lunch-taking.
It is a life and a lifestyle I could get so very, very used to.
On my only Sunday afternoon in the village, I joined the crowds on one of those sun-drenched Lourmarin patios for steak tartare and a glass of rosé. I watched from my perch as old friends greeted one another, as families did their family thing and as an incredibly chic, charismatic woman made the rounds from table to table, restaurant to restaurant. She gave a kiss-kiss here and a kiss-kiss there. She seemed to know and like everyone, and they, in turn, knew and loved her. Her vibe, her presence, her outfit. It was all, well, it was all just so spectacularly stylish and French.
“When I finally move here one day,” I mused, “I want to be just like her.”
Can one even say such a thing at forty-seven years old?!
Before heading back to my Airbnb to write for the rest of the afternoon, I decided to browse the shops that I had been saving for my last day. Eventually, I made my way into a women’s boutique and recognized its shopkeeper as the chic woman from the town center.
I asked about a pair of soft, baggy jeans she had hanging in her window. I had seen them on many women in Provence, and owning a pair myself felt like the first step in my French transformation. Before I knew it, I was trying on those jeans and everything else she recommended, including the exact outfit she had on.
Now that was a first for me!
When I asked for a smaller size in a certain pair of pants, I expected her, for no reason other than my own misjudgment, to tell me that I wouldn’t be able to fit into them. I was certain I had already gained a few pounds since arriving in Provence. I was feeling gross and self-conscious. Especially in front of this woman, who seemed to have it all put together.
When I made a joke about eating too many baguettes, patting my stomach as I did, she cut me off quickly and sternly, though gently. As I scrunched up my face at my reflection in the mirror, she insisted, almost protectively, that I was already just right. Already small.
For a moment, when I got back into the dressing room, I thought about what she’d said. Could she be right?
I eventually bought several pieces, including the same pants and mohair hoodie she was wearing that day. I stayed a little while longer to chat with her about my travels, her store and her social media, which had only recently taken off after years of hard work. She was easy to talk to, witty and so much fun. She was also sassy, not to mention independent and driven.
After meeting her, I felt like I’d gained a completely different perspective. Not on her, but on me.
That evening at dinner, I ordered the almond pear tart for dessert at La Récréation for no other reason than because I felt like it.
I was tired of measuring the trade-offs, consequences and outcomes all the time. I had been spending too much energy on the wrong, meaningless side of all these silly made-up margins in my head.
Everywhere I went around the world, it seemed, I was desperate to keep up with an absurd shadow version of myself that meant nothing to anyone, let alone me. A version who would never wear a mohair hoodie and definitely never order an almond pear tart.
She thought she hated almond desserts until a Sunday night in Lourmarin.
Before I went to bed that night, I took off the WHOOP health-tracking device that I’d lived my life by for the last few years and slid it into my suitcase pocket. I haven’t put it back on since. For the rest of this trip, I knew I would much rather feel my way through Provence than track it.
Without knowing it, the shopkeeper had given me something that afternoon I didn’t even know I had needed. Permission.
I thought back to that dressing room, trying on the same clothes I’d seen her wearing earlier at lunch. My French transformation wasn’t about what I put on. It was about how I chose to wear it.
I was already right. I just needed to see – and feel it – for myself.
