Provence France Quotes

The point of civilization is to be civilized; the purpose of action is to perpetuate society, for only in society can philosophy truly take place.

Don't wanna ever take your shoes off in coconut land. Never know when you're gonna have to run.

The French, it seems to me, strike a happy balance between intimacy and reserve. Some of this must be helped by the language, which lends itself to graceful expression even when dealing with fairly basic subjects.... And there's that famously elegant subtitle from a classic Western. COWBOY: "Gimme a shot of red-eye." SUBTITLE: "Un Dubonnet, s'il vous plait." No wonder French was the language of diplomacy for all those years.

The kitchen garden satisfies both requirements, a thing 0f beauty and a joy for dinner.

It is at a time like this, when crisis threatens the stomach, that the French display the most sympathetic side of their nature. Tell them stories of physical injury or financial ruin and they will either laugh or commiserate politely. But tell them you are facing gastronomic hardship, and they will move heaven and earth and even restaurant tables to help you.

I have a terrible weakness for collecting snatches of other people's conversations, and occasionally I'm rewarded with unusual fragments of knowledge. My favorite of the day came from a large but shapely woman sitting nearby whom I learned was the owner of a local lingerie shop. 'Beh oui,' she said to her companion, waving her spoon for emphasis, 'il faut du temps pour la corsetterie.' You can't argue with that. I made a mental note not to rush things next time I was shopping for a corset, and leaned back to allow the waiter through with the next course.

roast lamb from Sisteron, “the best lamb in France,

The year began with lunch.

As an appetizer, we would consult the oracular books, and came to depend more and more on the Gault-Millau guide. The Michelin is invaluable, and nobody should travel through France without it, but it is confined to the bare bones of prices and grades and specialities. Gault-Millau gives you the flesh as well. It will tell you about the chef—if he’s young, where he was trained; if he’s established, whether he’s resting on his past success or still trying hard.

Mais oui, maîtresse... Tenez ! juste au-dessus de nous, voilà le Chemin de saint Jacques (la Voie lactée). Il va de France droit sur l’Espagne. C’est saint Jacques de Galice qui l’a tracé pour montrer sa route au brave Charlemagne lorsqu’il faisait la guerre aux Sarrasins. Plus loin, vous avez le Char des Ames (la Grande Ourse) avec ses quatre essieux resplendissants. Les trois étoiles qui vont devant sont les Trois Bêtes, et cette toute petite contre la troisième c’est le Charretier. Voyez-vous tout autour cette pluie d’étoiles qui tombent ? Ce sont les âmes dont le bon Dieu ne veut pas chez lui... Un peu plus bas, voici le Râteau ou les Trois Rois (Orion). C’est ce qui nous sert d’horloge, à nous autres. Rien qu’en les regardant, je sais maintenant qu’il est minuit passé. Un peu plus bas, toujours vers le midi, brille Jean de Milan, le flambeau des astres (Sirius). Sur cette étoile-là, voici ce que les bergers racontent. Il paraît qu’une nuit Jean de Milan, avec les Trois Rois et la Poussinière (la Pléiade), furent invités à la noce d’une étoile de leurs amies. Poussinière, plus pressée, partit, dit-on, la première, et prit le chemin haut. Regardez-la, là-haut, tout au fond du ciel. Les Trois Rois coupèrent plus bas et la rattrapèrent ; mais ce paresseux de Jean de Milan, qui avait dormi trop tard, resta tout à fait derrière, et furieux, pour les arrêter, leur jeta son bâton. C’est pourquoi les Trois Rois s’appellent aussi le Bâton de Jean de Milan... Mais la plus belle de toutes les étoiles, maîtresse, c’est la nôtre, c’est l’Etoile du Berger, qui nous éclaire à l’aube quand nous sortons le troupeau, et aussi le soir quand nous le rentrons. Nous la nommons encore Maguelonne, la belle Maguelonne qui court après Pierre de Provence (Saturne) et se marie avec lui tous les sept ans

« [...]. Il est certain qu’il y a eu dans les rapports de la Chrétienté et de l’Islam des choses bien extraordinaires, et qui sont très mal connues. Les Arabes sont restés en Provence, dans les Alpes, etc., au moins jusqu’au XIe siècle, mais l’histoire écrite par les Européens le cache soigneusement ; mais de nombreux noms d’origine arabe (noms de lieux et noms de personnes) restent toujours, en France aussi bien qu’en Italie ; je vous citerai seulement comme exemple la rivière appelée Ain (source), qui a donné son nom à un département dont le chef lieu est Bourg (tour ou forteresse)… » [Lettre à Guido Di Giorgio, Le Caire, 22 mars 1936]

What is this kind of vandalism? There is little public discussion of it, but vandalism is an increasingly serious scourge, as damaging as violent crime. Let us not talk only of the countless vehicles set on fire, but also of the destruction of gymnasiums and public swimming pools, acts of arson against public buildings, the massive theft of materials, the damage inflicted on public buildings, and so on. These acts have multiplied significantly over the past three years and so has their cost. Let us take the example of Marseilles: according to La Provence (7 October 2003): ‘The bill has arrived for the municipality: about 1.86 million euros a year, or 12.5 million francs’, drawn from the local taxpayers, without counting the expenses of guards and security of 140,000 euros. The local press obviously does not bother to mention the ethnic origin of these ‘vandals’ other than with the expression ‘urban youth’. This criminal activity, which is increasing all over France, represents a growing burden for the French economy.

L'armée de Charles Martel se composait de Bourguignons, d'Allemands, de Gaulois, et celle d'Abdérame d'Arabes et de Berbères. Le combat resta indécis une partie de la journée, mais le soir, un corps de soldats francs s'étant détaché du gros de l'armée pour se porter vers le camp des musulmans, ces derniers quittèrent le champ de bataille en désordre pour aller défendre leur butin, et cette manœuvre maladroite entraîna leur perte. Ils durent battre en retraite et retourner dans les provinces du sud. Charles Martel les suivit de loin. Arrivé devant Narbonne, il l'assiégea inutilement, et s'étant mis alors, suivant l'habitude de l'époque, à piller tous les pays environnants, les seigneurs chrétiens s'allièrent aux Arabes pour se débarrasser de lui, et l'obligèrent à battre en retraite. Bientôt remis de l'échec que leur avait infligé Charles Martel, les musulmans continuèrent à occuper leurs anciennes positions, et se maintiennent encore en Lrance pendant deux siècles. En 737, le gouverneur de Marseille leur livre la Provence, et ils occupent Arles. En 889, nous les retrouvons encore à Saint-Tropez, et ils se maintiennent en Provence jusqu'à la fin du dixième siècle. En 935, ils pénètrent dans le Valais et la Suisse. Suivant quelques auteurs, ils seraient même arrivés jusqu'à Metz. Le séjour des Arabes en France, plus de deux siècles après Charles Martel, nous prouve que la victoire de ce dernier n'eut en aucune façon l'importance que lui attribuent tous les historiens. Charles Martel, suivant eux, aurait sauvé l'Europe et la chrétienté. Mais cette opinion, bien qu'universellement admise, nous semble entièrement privée de fondement.

July 3rd, 1566 Salon-de-Provence, France St. Michel Chapel 0300 hours   Brother Jean-Baptiste Chevalier would be dead in less than an hour. Had he known that would be the result, he would never have

We love the carnal sway of the Eiffel Tower and the stories of France’s great queens and mistresses told in the châteaux of Versailles and Chenonceau. Of course, we love the perfume, to scan the market for the best deal on fresh figs, the hollow clack of cobblestones under our heels, the citrusy scent of gorse blowing across a field in Normandy. We love the safety and ease of the Paris Métro and marvel at the sweep of almond blossoms in Haute-Provence. We gasp at the beauty of the bridges over the Seine and always feel at home when we stop in the middle of one to gaze down at the cottony wake of the Bateaux Mouches. We love the mountain air that refreshes us in the Alps, and the nighttime clouds that eat the stars over the Breton coast. We love to slow down, and France requires us to do so. In France, we find what we are missing.

Memory is a notoriously biased and sentimental editor, selecting what it wants to keep and invariably making a few cosmetic changes to past events. With rose-colored hindsight, the good times become magical; the bad times fade and eventually disappear, leaving only a seductive blur of sunlit days and the laughter of friends. Was it really like that? Would it be like that again?

Travel Bucket List 1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD. 2. Stay for a night in Le Grotte della Civita. Matera, Italy. 3. Go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. Queensland, Australia. 4. Watch a burlesque show. Paris, France. 5. Toss a coin and make an epic wish at the Trevi Fountain. Rome, Italy. 6. Get a selfie with a guard at Buckingham Palace. London, England. 7. Go horseback riding in the mountains. Banff, Alberta, Canada. 8. Spend a day in the Grand Bazaar. Istanbul, Turkey. 9. Kiss the Blarney Stone. Cork, Ireland. 10. Tour vineyards on a bicycle. Bordeaux, France. 11. Sleep on a beach. Phuket, Thailand. 12. Take a picture of a Laundromat. Country: All. 13. Stare into Medusa’s eyes in the Basilica Cistern. Istanbul, Turkey. 14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania. 15. Take a train through the Canadian Rockies. British Columbia, Canada. 16. Dress like a Bond Girl and play a round of poker at a casino. Montreal, Quebec, Canada. 17. Make a wish on a floating lantern. Thailand. 18. Cuddle a koala at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Queensland, Australia. 19. Float through the grottos. Capri, Italy. 20. Pose with a stranger in front of the Eiffel Tower. Paris, France. 21. Buy Alex a bracelet. Country: All. 22. Pick sprigs of lavender from a lavender field. Provence, France. 23. Have afternoon tea in the real Downton Abbey. Newberry, England. 24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece. 25. Go to the opera. Prague, Czech Republic. 26. Skinny dip in the Rhine River. Cologne, Germany. 27. Take a selfie with sheep. Cotswolds, England. 28. Take a selfie in the Bone Church. Sedlec, Czech Republic. 29. Have a pint of beer in Dublin’s oldest bar. Dublin, Ireland. 30. Take a picture from the tallest building. Country: All. 31. Climb Mount Fuji. Japan. 32. Listen to an Irish storyteller. Ireland. 33. Hike through the Bohemian Paradise. Czech Republic. 34. Take a selfie with the snow monkeys. Yamanouchi, Japan. 35. Find the penis. Pompeii, Italy. 36. Walk through the war tunnels. Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. 37. Sail around Ha long Bay on a junk boat. Vietnam. 38. Stay overnight in a trulli. Alberobello, Italy. 39. Take a Tai Chi lesson at Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi, Vietnam. 40. Zip line over Eagle Canyon. Thunderbay, Ontario, Canada.

Markets in Provence No region is such a market-must. Be it fresh fish by the port in seafaring Marseille, early summer's strings of pink garlic, Cavaillon melons and cherries all summer long or wintertime's earthy 'black diamond' truffles, Provence thrives on a bounty of local produce – piled high each morning at the market. Every town and village has one, but those in Aix-en-Provence and Antibes are particularly atmospheric. Take your own bag to stock up on dried herbs, green and black olives marinated a dozen different ways, courgette flowers and tangy olive oils.

In Europe it reached Spain, Provence, France and Italy, extending northwards through Germany, to the Rhineland cities of Mainz, Speyer and Worms. It was here the Talmud had its first serious encounter with an unfamiliar culture – and it was here, over the course of the next few centuries, that it was scrutinized as never before, both by its friends and by its enemies.

only person watching them. She’d noticed that before with Colin. At large dinners, people a few seats down would stop eating and lean over to listen to him. Colin left James, and a moment later he appeared beside her with a bottle of wine and glasses for her and her father. He kissed Faye, checked his watch, and said, “When can we ask them all to leave?” “Well,” said Deborah, once the guests were gone. “That was a success.” She had arranged for them to borrow her friend’s house in Provence for their honeymoon. “Actually,” Faye had said, “we’re going to India.” And on their honeymoon a week later, in a coracle spinning on a river in Hampi, Faye gripped the straw edges of the boat and she laughed and laughed and laughed. — AFTER THEY WERE MARRIED, my parents often went on trips abroad with his friends, to rented villas in France, Sardinia, Mallorca. I visited the one in Mallorca when I was twenty-two, after saving for months to buy the ticket. I went in September, when the villa where they’d stayed was empty. A sign for a security system was posted

For iron and pep, I wanted to make a cold lentil salad with a zingy orange-ginger vinaigrette, handfuls of chopped herbs, and slices of white peach. (The purple-green Puy lentils, more common than the orange ones in France, just seemed too dark for a summer salad.) After unpacking half the kitchen while standing, against my better judgement, on a kitchen chair, I ended up not with orange lentils, but with a bag of yellow split peas. That would have to do. The split peas had been hiding up there for a while--- I'm pretty sure I bought them after a trip to Puglia, where we were served warm split-pea puree drizzled with wonderful glass-green olive oil and a grind of fresh pepper. Still hankering after a cold salad, I tried cooking the dried peas al dente, as I would the lentils, but a half hour later, where the lentils would have been perfect, the split peas were a chalky, starchy mess. I decided to boil on past defeat and transform my salad into the silky puree I'd eaten with such gusto in Italy. When the peas were sweet and tender and the liquid almost absorbed, I got out the power tools. I'm deeply attached to my hand blender--- the dainty equivalent of a serial killer's obsession with chain saws. The orange-ginger vinaigrette was already made, so I dumped it in. The recipe's necessary dose of olive oil would have some lively company. The result was a warm, golden puree with just enough citrus to deviate from the classic. I toasted some pain Poilâne, slathered the bread with the puree, and chopped some dill. My tartines were still lacking a bit of sunshine, so I placed a slice of white peach on top.

Hello, ladies," I said gamely, noting the bones jutting out from their hindquarters. To an American, they seemed a bit svelte for good lavender ice cream. But this is France, so it shouldn't surprise me that even the livestock look like they're on a diet. The cows observed me with perfect detachment as my heels sank into the early-spring mud. One finally looked up and gave me her full attention. She chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of hay, her large liquid eyes perfectly ringed with black, like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Suddenly her head bobbed down toward my boots and immediately back up again, as if to say, Excusez-moi, madame, but it's clear from the cleanliness of your shoes that you're new around here. Very, very new. And, as a rule, we don't produce milk for anyone born in Manhattan.

There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.

When we'd arrived in Céreste, our neighbor Arnaud said we should go to the Musée de Salagon, in Mane. In addition to its twelfth-century church and Gallo-Roman ruins, the museum has a wonderful medieval garden. The monks used these herbs to heal as well as to flavor. I've met many people in Provence who use herbal remedies, not because it's trendy, but because it's what their grandmothers taught them. My friend Lynne puts lavender oil on bug bites to reduce the swelling; I recently found Arnaud on his front steps tying small bundles of wild absinthe, which he burns to fumigate the house. Many of the pharmacies in France still sell licorice root for low blood pressure. We drink lemon verbena herbal tea for digestion. I also like the more poetic symbolism of the herbs. I'm planting sage for wisdom, lavender for tenderness (and, according to French folklore, your forty-sixth wedding anniversary), rosemary for remembrance. Thyme is for courage, but there is also the Greek legend that when Paris kidnapped Helen of Troy, each tear that fell to the ground sprouted a tuft of thyme. All things being equal, I prefer courage to tears in my pot roast.

You know it's Christmas in France when the refrigerator looks like this: the fruit drawer is full of cheese, the cheese drawer is full of foie gras, the four bottles of water on the door have been replaced with champagne, and the lettuce (wrapped loosely in a dish towel) is wedged in over two broad, beady-eyed live crabs (nicknamed Gérard and Gaston).

south of France, where he embraced the sunny, light cuisine of Provence—as bright as a Van Gogh sunflower.

And yet it was France that grew the finest flowers of delicacy and grace and intelligence and wit and understanding and proportion and taste. Even the countryside, even the landscape of France, whether in the low hills and lush meadows and apple orchards of Normandy or in the sharp and arid and vivid outline of the mountains of Provence, or in the vast, rolling red vineyards of Languedoc, seems to have been made full of a special perfection, as a setting for the best of the cathedrals, the most interesting towns, the most fervent monasteries, and the greatest universities.

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He is already giving me more advice. Never, never, never put your saucisson or your cheese in the fridge. I feel guilty. I have treated my produce cruelly. I blame my mother. Why didn’t she teach me this – and tell me important things like not to hold an orange pumpkin against a cream jumper when I was peeling it. She could have told me how to preserve kiwifruit rather than my virginity – far more useful.

Pope Innocent III required of the Count of Toulouse, Raymond VI, who ruled in Provence, and of the other rulers and prelates in the South of France, that the heretics should be banished. This would have meant the ruin of the country. Raymond temporised, but was soon involved in a hopeless quarrel with the Pope, who in 1209 proclaimed a crusade against him and his people. Indulgences, such as had been given to the Crusaders who went at great risk to themselves to rescue the Holy Places in Palestine from the Mohammedan Saracens, were now offered to all who would take part in the easier work of destroying the most fruitful provinces of France. This, and the prospect of booty and licence of every kind attracted hundreds of thousands of men. Under the presidence of high clerical dignitaries and led by Simon de Montfort, a military leader of great ability and a man of boundless ambition and ruthless cruelty, the most beautiful and cultivated part of Europe at that time was ravaged, became for twenty years the scene of unspeakable wickedness and cruelty and was reduced to desolation.

Children are not allowed to wear veils, or crosses, or yarmulkes in public school; a French president never mentions God in his speeches. Religion in France is considered a purely private matter, and, as a result, no one knows much about other people’s traditions. I understand the historical forces at work; I also think it’s a shame. Hidden religion breeds ignorance and sustains stereotypes.

I was surprised to learn that Pope John Paul the 3rd had made an official visit, as

Influential scholars since the mid-twentieth century have argued that the essential character of Ottoman modernity was reactive, imitative, defensive, and ultimately defective relative to the presumably more successful modernization projects of Germany, Britain, France, the Soviet Union, and America, where while exemplifying and eventually monopolizing claims to modernity, also brought two world wars, the Holocaust, the nuclear immolation of Japanese cities, and the Cold War, among other worldwide cataclysms.