Provence - Frontiers Elegant Journeys

ICONIC ITINERARIES
Eleventh in a S eries
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7 Perfect Days in . . .
11
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Provence
B y Ka te Ma x w e l l
I l l u s t ra t i o n s b y
Ja m e s N o e l S m i th
The hilltop hamlet of Gordes,
which was occupied by the Romans and was an important
Resistance enclave during
World War II, is one of the Luberon Valley’s many stunners.
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C O N D É N A S T T R AV E L E R / c n t r a v e l e r. c o m
The Challenge:
Don’t
blame Peter Mayle, of A Year in Provence
notoriety: The southeasternmost corner of
France has never been short of visitors. Its
cobalt Luberon Mountains, seductive coastline, rippling lavender fields, and honeystone hilltop villages have inspired everyone from Nostradamus to Van Gogh. The
Romans settled in Provence in the second
century b.c.; even the Vatican transplanted
here from dazzling Rome in the fourteenth
century. In fact, given its extraordinary history and bewitching natural beauty, you
might call Provence’s popularity a self-fulfilling prophecy. (You were right, Nostradamus!) Coming here presents the visitor with
two problems: how to edit , square
miles, six départements, and a whole season’s worth of attractions—from market
towns to world-famous vineyards—into
just seven days, and how to see it more or
less solo, leaving the tourist hordes behind.
I
The Solution:
Unless sitting Renault bumper to Renault bumper on
melting highways is your idea of fun, forget
Provence in high summer. The French are a
wise race: More than any other European
citizens, they take their summer vacations
in their own backyard (why would they want
to go anywhere else?), which means endless
lines in July and August as well as the usual
price hikes at restaurants, hotels, and museums. The French have two months to
burn, so they can afford to sit in traffic—
you can’t. Come October, the crowds disperse and you’ll practically have those hilltop villages and bistros to yourself. And
since the mercury can soar to the mid-s
in summer, a bit of froideur, if you will, could
make your explorations all the more pleasurable. Second, be realistic and take your
time. You can’t cover the entire region in a
week, nor would you want to. Experiencing
la vraie Provence is about lengthy foie gras–
Day 1 (Saturday): Aix-en-Provence
t’s  a.m. on Saturday and you’re breakfasting like
Le Roi René himself in the ornate dining room of
the Villa Gallici (-----; doubles, $–$),
Aix-en-Provence’s best hotel, having arrived on the TGV
from Paris the previous evening and bedded down in
your wonderfully chintzy room, where the aroma of
lavender virtually guarantees a good night’s sleep. The
breakfast spread includes mocha coffee in a silver pot,
croissants and pain au chocolat, a row of homemade
jams like bright daubs of paint, yogurt, and apple puree, all served on rosebud china. Will you ever be satisfied with a Starbucks and a muffin again? It’s an appropriate introduction to Provence—a region where eating
often seems more important than breathing—and sets
the scene for a gastronomic week.
After, be sure to leave the hotel no later than  a.m.,
armed with a map from reception. Make your way
south into the center of Aix—it’s a -minute stroll.
Aix-en-Provence (population ,) is to France what
Boston is to the United States. It’s an elegant, aristocratic charmer with the quintessential plane tree–lined
boulevard, the Cours Mirabeau; handsome seventeenth-century hôtels (elegant town houses); and seductive mini-squares with gurgling fountains. Founded
by the Romans in  b.c., Aix was the capital of
Provence from the twelfth century until the Revolution.
It has been a university town for centuries, and luminaries of the literary and art worlds—Zola, Cézanne,
In Place Richelme, FOLLOW YOUR NOSE,
and the arthritic ladies pushing shopping
carts, to a table overflowing with 15 types of
mushrooms, including orange-tinted girolles
J U LY 2 0 1 0
laden lunches (vegetarians, look away now)
as much as it is about scoping out medieval
churches and Roman ruins. For a fail-safe
solution, engage the services of an expert
such as Jill Jergel of Frontiers International
Travel, who visits the region annually and
knows which restaurants are in favor with
the local gourmets, what time the Romanesque cloisters at Aix’s Cathédrale St-Sauveur are unlocked, which hotels have great
looks and superlative service, and how to
secure backstage tours of Châteauneuf-duPape cellars. Together, we designed a magnifique itinerary that took in the three A’s:
Aix, Arles, and Avignon; skipped the swanky
seaside Côte d’Azur in favor of low-key Cassis; dipped down to the rugged Camargue
in the deep south; and included one-off experiences like a balloon ride, dinner at a
chef’s table, and, turning the tables, a
cooking class—it was the least one could
do after all that gorging.
Hemingway—found inspiration here. It’s no accident
that you’ve come on a Saturday in fall: This is Aix’s premier market day, and October is a monthlong harvest
festival, so you’re heading for the Place de l’Hôtel de
Ville, with its vivid array of blooms, and then the Place
Richelme, for kaleidoscopic vegetables. On your way,
you pass the Cathédrale St-Sauveur (you’ll return later), on the rue Gaston de Saporta, and stop in at the
Confiserie du Roy René ( rue Gaston de Saporta; ----) to buy calisson candies [Fig. 1]. But don’t
dawdle: The vendors pack up in the early afternoon.
At the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, you’ll see tight
bunches of roses in six different hues of
pink, ornamental cabbages, lilies, and
blousy sunflowers, the yellow-stone Hôtel
de Ville providing an elegant backdrop. At
the petite Place Richelme, the vegetable
market unfurls under the plane trees that characterize this town and the region—they were
planted on the orders of Napoleon, to shade his
troops on the way to battle. Here, you’ll find
many of the sweet and savory delights that will end up
on your plate this week: fromage de chèvre and saucisson, rosy-red coeur de boeuf tomatoes, streaky purple
and white eggplant, jars of honey in shades of amber.
There are bundles of Provence’s most famous export,
lavender, which also comes in little pillows—great soporific souvenirs, an instant Proustian recollection from
your trip. Next stop, the Place des Prêcheurs for olive oil
and tapenade, herbes de Provence, and the season’s
must-buy: fungi. The markets have everything you
could possibly need for the perfect Provençal picnic,
so pick up choice morsels of cheese and salami (sampling before you buy, naturally) and a baguette and
then stash your haul in your rucksack for later. Skip
the brocante (flea market) part of the Place des Prêcheurs—it’s fallen victim to panpipers, polyester versions
[Fig. 1]
Calissons, a centuries-old iced marzipan candy in the
shape of petals, are
made from ground
almonds and fruit
and are native to Aix.
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ICONIC ITINERARIES
Provence
DAY 2
Porte de
la Ligne
DAY 3
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
Jardin
des Arts
Cavaillon
St-Rémy
Théâtre
Antique
Jardin d'Été
D17
.
Le Couvent
des Minimes
ts
.
N100
Oppède-leVieux
D38
Ménerbes
Monastère St-Paulde-Mausolée
Pl. de la
République Blvd. des Lices
Gordes
Lacoste
M
D571
Domaine de
Valmouriane
D2
Mane
La Bastide
de Marie
n
Arles R.
Raspail
Baths of
Constantine
Amphitheater
St-Trophime
D900
D570n
500 ft.
Forcalquier
10 miles
La Bastide de
Gordes & Spa
Église St-Pierre
4 Septembre
DAY 7
HAUTEPROVENCE
ro
La Mirande hotel
D4
L’Estaminet
ARLES
ts
DAY 6
VAUC LU S E
D956
E712
Le Bistrot du Paradou
A7
A51
Mas des Barres
N113
AIX-EN-PROVENCE
Salon
D17
Chez Bob
A8
Le Mas de Peint
D36
Rho
CAMARGUE
Villa Gallici/
Atelier Paul Cézanne
Roy René
Pl. Richelme
Pl. des
Prêcheurs
Pl. de Hôtel
de Ville
COURS
MIRABEAU
Hôtel Maurel
de Pontèves
C Ô T E D ’A Z U R
re
4 Septemb
ne R.
Sonia
Rykiel
Le Passage
F R A NC E
1,000 ft.
St-Sauveur
Princesse
Tam Tam
Ètang de
Berre
Paris
A R EA OF
DETAI L
be
Papal
Palace
DAY 5
M
Notre-DameDes-Doms
La Fourchette
DAY 4
Domaine Terres de Solence
D942
Lu
D907
re
Rocher
des Doms
KEY
DAY 1
500 ft.
Pont d'Avignon
Lu
AVIGNON
Comptoir de
Cotonniers
Les Deux
Garçons
Musée
Granet
A52
Med
iter
ran
ea
Marseille
n
Se
D559
a
A50
Cassis
of Provençal print material, and fake café signs.
Next, head to the Cours Mirabeau, Aix’s liveliest boulevard, which features four fountains, including the
grand La Rotonde at its west end. It’s around : now,
so stop for a coffee at one of the many cafés on the
south side of the street (don’t expect a large cup—“un
café” is an espresso). In the s, these cafés were differentiated by their political allegiances, with the most
conservative at the east end, the most socialist at the
west. Les Deux Garçons ( Cours Mirabeau; ----) is the legendary right-wing establishment—
On Aix’s COURS MIRABEAU, a wide boulevard
sheltered by plane trees, you’ll see elegant French
ladies marching their perfectly coiffured pooches
along the pavement and Vespas whizzing by

Route des Crêtes
Émile Zola, his pal Cézanne (of which more later), and
Albert Camus chewed the fat here. Note the handsome
town houses opposite; with pigeon-gray shutters and
ornate balconies, they were built by Aixois nobility. At
number , the extraordinary Hôtel Maurel de Pontèves—built by one Pierre Maurel, a cloth trader who
was ennobled and became provincial treasurer, is worth
a closer look. Completed in , it’s the oldest on the
Cours and a melée of architectural styles, which you’ll
be seeing frequently in Provence but rarely in the same
edifice: The exterior has Doric columns on the first story, Ionic on the second, and Corinthian on the third,
while the balcony is supported—begrudgingly, judging
from their expressions—by two burly telamons.
Then walk the rue du Quatre Septembre, which is
lined with more examples of fine seventeenth-century
mansions, to the Musée Granet (-----), on the
Place de St-Jean de Malte. It features Flemish, Dutch,
C O N D É N A S T T R AV E L E R / c n t r a v e l e r. c o m
Map by Joyce Pendola
Les Calanques
[Fig. 2]
Aix is scattered with
fountains, and the
Place des Quatre
Dauphins has the
prettiest. Designed
by Jean-Claude
Rambot, it was unveiled in 1667.
J U LY 2 0 1 0
Italian, and French paintings and sculpture from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries (including some of
François Granet’s own canvases), plus gaudy contemporary paintings on the top floor that wouldn’t look out of
place hawked beside Central Park. It’s the nine Cézannes
on the second floor that you’re here to see. Despite Paul
Cézanne’s having lived and worked in Aix for much of his
life, few of his works are here: They’ve been snapped up
by international museums such as London’s National
Gallery and New York’s MoMA, much to the chagrin of
the Aixois. Cézanne discovered painting at Granet’s free
drawing school, which he attended from  to ,
and the museum has retained his slightly naive copy of
Félix-Nicolas Frillié’s neoclassical Le Baiser de la muse; a
miniature Baigneuses canvas; a portrait
of a glum, wide-eyed Madame Cézanne;
and my favorite, the diminutive Femme
nue au miroir, a flirty nude holding a
hand-mirror, in splashy blues. The Giacometti works on this floor are part of
the permanent “Giacometti à Cézanne”
exhibition; paintings by twentiethcentury masters Picasso (look out for the
vibrant, surrealist Femme au balcon),
Mondrian, and Morandi are also worth
perusing. By now, your chèvre should
have melted sufficiently to be ripe for
the eating: It’s time for lunch. If the sun’s
out, perch in the nearby Place des Quatre Dauphins—adorned with one of Aix’s loveliest fountains, four dolphins spewing water [Fig. 2]—or head back
to the Cours Mirabeau and join the locals with their
sandwiches on the benches.
Spend the afternoon wandering the streets north of
the Cours Mirabeau, where you’ll find a diminutive
square with a fountain at every turn. And make sure
that, whatever your religious persuasion, you spend a
contemplative half-hour in the wonderful Cathédrale
St-Sauveur (north of the Cours Mirabeau). There has
been a religious building on this site since Roman
times, but most of what you see today, including the
simple Romanesque and soaring crossed Gothic arches,
dates from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The
tranquil Romanesque cloisters, concealed behind a
heavy wooden door to the right of the main nave (and
open to the public from : a.m. until noon and from 
to  p.m., except during services) are the highlight: The
pale stone pillars look like twisted licorice, and at each
corner are carved symbols of the evangelists—a lion for
Saint Mark, an ox for Saint Luke.
If you’re planning to stock up on Gallic fashion this
week, Aix is the place (“C’est un mini Paris,” said the
concierge at the Villa Gallici). Hit Comptoir de Cotonniers ( rue Aude; -----) for wide-legged
pants, sharp white shirts, and peacoats; Princesse Tam
Tam ( rue Espariat; -----) for beautiful
bright-hued lingerie; and Sonia Rykiel ( bis rue Marius
Reinaud; -----) for striped sweaters and
studded handbags [Fig. 3].
On your way back to the Villa Gallici, stop at the Atelier Paul Cézanne ( ave. Paul Cézanne; -----
), for a fascinating insight into the artist’s
life. The Impressionist painter bought land
here in , near the end of his life, and had
the -square-foot studio built to his exact
specifications, with windows occupying the
entire north wall. So faithfully has the space
been re-created that it’s as if Cézanne has
just popped out, canvas under arm, to paint his favorite
motif, the towering Mont Ste-Victoire (a -minute walk
took the artist to a perfect vantage point). Cézanne
completed many significant works here, including
three of his Grandes Baigneuses, and objects from his
still lifes (a floral screen, a green jug, and a rum bottle) are on display. The knowledgeable Gabriel Maginier is your guide to the atelier—with his protruding
ears, square jaw, and wide eyes, he looks like a Cézanne subject. Sadly, it was not until Picasso cited him
as an influence in , a year after his death, that Cézanne gained renown. To learn more, pick up a translation of L’Oeuvre (Oxford World’s Classics, $), by the artist’s childhood friend Émile Zola. This “fictional” account
of the decline and fall of an Impressionist ahead of his
time—whom Cézanne recognized as himself—resulted
in the pair’s irreconcilable falling-out.
The atelier is just five minutes from the Villa Gallici,
where you’re booked for dinner at  p.m. (Aix’s Michelin-starred restaurants have been receiving bad reviews recently, so give them a wide berth). Spring for
the hunk of seared foie gras appetizer and the duck
with eggplant puree, if they’re on the menu [Fig. 4].
T
[Fig. 3]
For a spot (or
stripe) of Parisian
chic, hit up seasoned
fashion designer
Sonia Rykiel’s Aix
boutique.
Day 2 (Sunday): Cassis
oday you’re heading to the Mediterranean and
Cassis, Provence’s most charming—and underrated—seaside hangout, a favorite of the Aixois. It’s a busy
working harbor, so expect less fur and more fish than at
its ritzy Côte d’Azur neighbors Cannes and St-Tropez.
Leave the Villa Gallici by : a.m. and take the A south
to Fréjus/St-Raphael, then the A toward Aubagne/Toulon, which merges into the
A. Take Exit , following
signs for Aubagne/Roquefort-la-Bédoule on the D,
which will drop you in Cassis,
where you’ll see signs pointing to various parking lots.
The trip should be under an
hour, leaving you plenty of
time before lunch for a promenade along the harbor,
where you’ll find fishermen hauling in their catch, mending their nets, and descaling dorade, while wooden boats
every color of the rainbow bob offshore. You can explore
the secret natural coves between Les Calanques—fat,
rocky claws that resemble Norwegian fjords and poke
out into the ocean all the way from Cassis to Marseille—
on a motorboat tour with (French) commentary. Select
your craft at the Visite des Calanques terminal ( rue Lamartine; -----; tours, $–$) on the harbor;
choose a tour of three, five, or eight Calanques and, if it’s
warm, take one that will deposit you on one of les roches
blanches, so you can make like a local and dive into the
[Fig. 4]
The exquisite Villa
Gallici takes maximalism to a whole new
level. If there’s a chill
in the air at suppertime, ask for a table
close to the open fire.

ICONIC ITINERARIES
Provence
[Fig. 5]
Les Calanques are the
ragged remnants of
ancient river mouths
that extend 12.5 miles
along the Mediterranean coast from Marseille to Cassis.
improbably azure sea [Fig. 5]. But bear in mind that you
need to be back in the harbor by : p.m., for lunch at
Nino ( Quai Jean-Jacques Barthélemy; -----;
lunch entrées, $–$).
A local favorite founded in , Nino is on the
west side of the harbor—look for the blue awning.
Peruse the menu if you like, but there’s really only
one thing to order: the bouillabaisse. It’s the region’s
specialty, and a delicious and entertaining ritual that
can stretch long into the afternoon. You start with a
bowl of fishy broth that is
continually replenished
and an array of fish (superfresh spotted weaver, scorpion fish, conger eel, John
Dory)—presented on a
separate plate—plus croutons, boiled potatoes, Parmesan cheese, and a potent, garlicky sauce (rouille)
that will leave you reeking
joyfully until tomorrow.
The meal’s DIY element—you create your own mélange
of the ingredients—adds to the experience.
After lunch, head back to your car and follow the signs
to the Route des Crêtes, a winding, death-defying road
popular with bikers and motorcyclists. As you climb away
from Cassis, terraced fields give way to red earth dotted
with scrubby rosemary bushes—look down to the right
for a sweeping vista of the town. After about ten minutes, a third of the way along the route, pull over on the
right-hand side of the road and continue on foot on the
fragrant path toward the cliffs for another exhilarating
view of the Mediterranean. From here, the shimmering
sea is indistinguishable from the sky; pools of sunlight
drip through the clouds, illuminating the occasional fishing boat. Return to your car for the most terrifying
stretch of the Route des Crêtes: a series of rock-hugging
hairpin turns that is worth the sweaty palms for the
glimpses of the prehistoric white-stone monoliths that
look like fat digits amid the diminutive cypress trees.
After driving back into Aix and calming your nerves
with a tisane at the Villa Gallici, stroll to Le Passage
( rue Villars; -----), a bistro opposite the
Cézanne Cinema that has a leafy Asian fusion look
and a decent three-course prix fixe for $, including a
bottle of wine to share. You have an early start tomorrow, so pack before you hit the sack, and set your
alarm for  a.m.
H
Day 3 (Monday): Provence
aving checked out of the Villa Gallici, you’re behind the wheel by : a.m., heading north on
the A/E until the turnoff to Forcalquier, a pretty
medieval town nestled between the Lure and Luberon
mountains in Haute-Provence, for an elevated perspective on this bucolic region and one of the week’s highlights: a hot-air balloon ride. It’s a dramatic drive to Forcalquier, particularly at this time of day, with the sun
and mist rising: You pass lofty blue forests, their leaves
turning russet, that call to mind Jean Giono’s novella

The Man Who Planted Trees, an allegorical eco-tale
about someone who voluntarily reforested his patch of
Provence in the early twentieth century.
You meet a representative from France Montgolfières (-----; -minute balloon ride, $) in
front of the Tourist Office on the Place Bourget at  a.m.
Montgolfières has been flying balloons all over France
almost daily for over a decade, so you’re in safe hands.
Having parked in Forcalquier, you’re driven to a field
just outside town, where a train of blue and red silk lies
unfurled on the grass. A fan is blasting fiery air into
the balloon, which gradually inflates and swings upright, finally standing an impressive – feet high. You
and the other passengers clamber into the -person
basket, and after some brief safety instructions and a
The direction that the hot-air balloon takes depends
upon the wind’s whimsy: We passed over the
medieval, fortified HILLTOP TOWN OF MANE,
where fellow passengers pointed out their house
chirpy “Messieurs et Mesdames, bon vol!” from the
pilot, the balloon rises gently off the ground. It lingers just above the grass and shuffles, hovercraft-like,
over the patchwork fields of the Durance Valley, before
lifting off, breaking through the clouds, and ascending
to , feet. Birds swoop beneath the basket, and confused dogs yap up at it. About  minutes after takeoff,
you alight in a field near a borie, a traditional Provençal
drystone hut (some date back to  b.c.), crushing wild
thyme and marjoram as you land. After champagne and
croissants, everyone pitches in to fold the balloon and
stuff it back into its bag before the drive back to town
[Fig. 6]. Monday is market day here—another opportunity to stock up on Provençal produce.
From Forcalquier, drive . miles down the N to
Mane, where you’ve been booked for a noon spa treatment at Le Couvent des Minimes (-----), a
seventeenth-century convent
that recently opened as a hotel with France’s first
l’Occitane spa. L’Occitane
beauty products are concocted just down the road using
flowers and herbs harvested
nearby —including, naturellement, lavender—and exported to  countries. The factory
shop offers a ten percent discount on products, but don’t
bother with the free tour: I was expecting an herbal version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but the reality
was much more prosaic. The spa treatments back at the
hotel, however, are sublime, and the “Immortelle Secret
to Youth” facial ($) is particularly recommended.
Lunch has been booked for  p.m. at La Manne Celeste (Le Grand Chemin; -----; lunch entrées, $–$), a small, simple Mane pizzeria that you’d
walk right by if you didn’t know it was there. The tables
are jammed with laborers and families enjoying excel-
[Fig. 6]
For a bird’s-eye
view of HauteProvence—and an
unusual sensation of
serenity mixed with
exhilaration—opt
for a hot-air balloon
ride with France
Montgolfières.
C O N D É N A S T T R AV E L E R / c n t r a v e l e r. c o m
[Fig. 7]
The hotel La Mirande started life
as a cardinal’s palace. We’re sure the
clerics would have
approved of the ornately decorated
rooms with painted
paneling and toile
de Jouy and chintz
walls and curtains.
lent hearty fare: rough country pâté, andouillette (a
smoked tripe sausage), and fromage blanc with rhubarb compote. The scene will remind you just how serious the French are about their food, regardless of their
socio-economic background—and how their attitude
toward a weekday lunch differs from ours: Sandwich at
your desk or two-hour slap-up lunch? I know which I
prefer. After your meal, drive to the papal powerhouse
of Avignon on the scenic N, which leads into the
D. When you reach the outskirts of Avignon, head
inside the city’s fourteenth-century ramparts to the hotel La Mirande ( Place de la Mirande; -----;
doubles, $–$). La Mirande, which celebrates its
seven-hundredth birthday this year, couldn’t possibly have a better location: It’s directly
opposite the -foot-high walls of
the Papal Palace, Avignon’s main
event. Nevertheless, it’s tricky to locate (fortunately, your travel specialist has provided detailed driving directions that lead you into the city
center via the Porte de la Ligne, from
where you should see signs to La Mirande). When you reach a set of short
iron posts restricting traffic, ring the
buzzer and the receptionist will lower
them, and you will proceed down a
narrow cobbled street to the hotel,
which has valet parking (it costs $ a
day, and unfortunately there’s no real
alternative). Inside the elegant honey-stone walls of La
Mirande, the eighteenth-century-style decor is sumptuous, and a winding staircase leads to small but exquisite paneled rooms with marble bathrooms [Fig. 7].
Tomorrow you’ll get the grand tour of Avignon’s stupefyingly rich architecture, which stretches back to the Romans, but spend an hour or so inside the Papal Palace
(-----; it closes at  p.m. in October) this afternoon. The papacy installed its court in Avignon at the beginning of the fourteenth century to escape political infighting in Rome, swelling the city from , citizens to
There’s no mistaking that you’re in the mountainous
region of Haute-Provence as the D900 to Avignon
lifts and dips, and you zip past dramatic peaks
FADING FROM GREEN TO BLUE as the sun sets
,. A dynasty of popes inhabited this, the largest
Gothic palace in Europe, for nearly a hundred years, each
adding his personal architectural or interior-design
flourish and modifying the general look from sober Romanesque to elaborate Gothic (to appreciate these modifications, check out the intricate wooden models on the
first floor). In addition to being the center of the Holy Roman Empire in exile, the palace has had many lives, including as a military barracks and a prison. There’s not a
huge amount to see inside, but worth a peek are the
Grand Tinel, a banqueting room of astounding proportions, with a wood-paneled barrel-vaulted ceiling (the
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original was destroyed
by fire in , so it was
reconstructed in the
s), where the conclave was elected; the
Pope’s Chamber in the
Angel Tower, its blue
walls decorated with
vines (residents and guests of the Papal Palace drank an
extraordinary . liters of wine a day per person); and
Pope Clement VI’s study, with a surprisingly pagan frieze
depicting the seigneurial pastoral pleasures of stag
hunting, fishing, and falcon hunting [Fig. 8].
Freshen up back at La Mirande before wandering
past the floodlit palace to La Fourchette ( rue Racine;
-----; prix fixe, $), a lively bistro where a
table has been reserved for you at  p.m. [Fig. 9].
A
[Fig. 8]
The papacy’s move to
Avignon caused the
population to swell
from 6,000 to 30,000;
the overcrowding problem was solved when
the plague wiped out
half the city in 1348.
Day 4 (Tuesday):
Avignon and nearby villages
fter a decadent buffet breakfast in La Mirande’s
Louis XV–style Garden Salon, meet your excellent
American émigré guide Ann Menuhin (-----)
at : a.m. in the hotel reception for a walking tour of
the city. The papacy left Rome for Avignon in , and
about  years later, the Vatican bought the city from the
Queen of Naples for , gold florins. A succession of
seven popes resided here until , when Pope Gregory
XI returned to Rome. Avignon’s history and architecture
dates back much further than the late Middle Ages, however, and Menuhin is deft at explaining its onionlike layers. She points out, for example, Notre-Dame-des-Doms,
a twelfth-century Romanesque church on the main
square to which flamboyant Baroque flourishes were
added in the seventeenth century in an attempt to woo
new worshippers (note the freshly gilded Virgin at the
top as you leave). From here, Menuhin leads you to the
nineteenth-century gardens just above the Papal Palace,
where you get a good view of the Rhône and what’s left
of the famous Pont d’Avignon. Today, the river is a glassy
green; in the twelfth century, it was a wild stretch of water, its two branches encircling the biggest river island in
Europe, Barthelasse. When a local shepherd
boy was instructed by God to build a
bridge across it, skeptics challenged
him to pick up a vast boulder to
prove that he had the Lord’s support.
The boy did, legend has it, and
wealthy sponsors formed a committee to
build the bridge. It collapsed and was rebuilt many
times over the centuries, until repair efforts were abandoned in the seventeenth century. Menuhin then takes
you into the city center, pointing out seventeenth-century aristocratic homes with elaborate interior courtyards
with mosaics made from Calades stone, Renaissance
houses characterized by exterior staircases, and Gothic
churches like the fourteenth century Église St-Pierre.
After the tour, pick up your car and drive  minutes
south on the Dn and then the D to Le Bistrot du
Paradou, or “Chez Jean-Louis” ( ave. de la Vallée des
Baux; -----; prix-fixe lunch, $), between
[Fig. 9]
No Provençal trip
is complete without
at least one serving
of garlicky escargots; order a dozen
of the little suckers
at Avignon’s La
Fourchette.

ICONIC ITINERARIES
Provence
[Fig. 10]
Le Bistrot du Paradou was featured in
Peter Mayle’s notorious (in these parts)
A Year in Provence,
but don’t let that put
you off—it’s still popular with the locals.

the villages of Paradou and Maussane-les-Alpilles,
where lunch has been booked for : p.m. The restaurant, in a farmhouse with powder-blue shutters, is an
unpretentious place with exposed-brick walls and zinc
and marble tables. First opened in , it serves a daily-changing four-course lunch of robust Provençal classics that comes with a bottle of red. My meal included a
colossal slab of foie gras, moist guinea fowl with ratatouille, a plate of  cheeses so ripe they almost writhed
(among them, a ludicrously creamy Roquefort), and a
perfect crème brûlée [Fig. 10].
From there, it’s a five-minute drive back along the D
and then left onto the Route des Tours de Castillon to
Mas des Barres ( Maussane-les-Alpilles; ----), to get up close and personal with one of
Provence’s artisanal products: olive oil. The region’s sunny, breezy weather, characterized by the storied northeast mistral wind—which rattles down the Rhône Valley
and has been a motif of and inspiration for Provençal art
and literature—provides ideal conditions for growing
olives, and the Quenin family (who are, incidentally, the
former owners of Le Bistrot du Paradou) have had a mill
here since . Their olive oil was awarded the International Olive Oil Council’s Gold Medal in the “Mildly
Fruity” category in , a veritable coup not least because the Vallée Baux is France’s smallest appellation
and the country presses just . percent of the world’s
olive oil, compared with Italy’s  percent and Spain’s 
percent. The tour begins at : p.m. in the gray-green
olive grove, where the soft-spoken
Jean-Baptiste Quenin introduces
you to the five different varietals
that make up his family’s oil: la salonenque, the principal component; la verdale, which adds grassy
notes; the artichoke-flavored la
béruguette; the peppery la picholine; and la grossane, which gives
the olive oil its round, appley flavor. The harvest, when the olives
are raked by hand and netted, begins in early November.
Some olives are plucked green, others when they ripen
to black (black and green olives are not different varieties; all olives start out green and turn black). After JeanBaptiste explains the multi-stage pressing process—if
you’re here in late fall, you might see the machines
whirring—including the vacuuming of the branches and
leaves and the extraction of the oil in a contraption similar to a giant Jacuzzi, you return to the shop to sample
the fruits of the Quenin family’s labors: An initial green,
herby hit leads to a peppery back-of-the-throat punch,
which softens to a gentle walnut note. Don’t leave without purchasing a few tins of olive oil [Fig. 11].
Back at La Mirande, it’s time to get your glad rags on
for the meal of the week—yes, you’re going to gorge
again, but if you’re still sated from your four-course
lunch, ne t’inquiete pas: The human stomach has an incredible ability to find room for good food. Tonight,
you’ll be dining at the chef’s communal table in La
Mirande’s old kitchen, where glasses, crockery, and
copper pots are laid out on a dresser and the flam-
boyant Jean-Claude Altmayer performs before a monster-sized range inside the
old hearth. Less dinner, more
theater, this evening calls to
mind a Molière farce. The
chef sets the tone by asking
his guests—up to  of you—
“Qu’est-ce qu’on va manger?”
(“What are we going to
eat?”). He then answers, “Rien!” (“Nothing!”), and proceeds to pretend to cut himself and twirl around in front
of the stove, bowing and gesticulating to his delighted
audience. Altmayer adds a subversive piquancy and
subtle Asian flavor to traditional Provençal ingredients:
After gambas with a vinegar and ginger sauce and a
wedge of steamed salmon with fennel and shallots, our
meal took a medieval turn: A great whopping, sizzling
côte de boeuf was wrestled from the oven, hacked into
tender chunks, and served with a red wine sauce, cèpes,
and mashed potatoes. Dessert was an oozing, diminutive (phew!) chocolate cake. The lively meal goes on well
into the night, with the chef replenishing glasses of
Rhône Valley wines—fortunately you’re only a couple
flights of spiral stairs away from bed [Fig. 12].
Y
[Fig. 11]
The jagged limestone Alpilles Mountains rise dramatically behind the
olive groves of the
Vallée des Baux appellation contrôlée.
Day 5 (Wednesday):
St-Rémy and the Camargue
ou’ve done far too much eating without lifting a
finger this week, so today you’re going to learn how
to prepare a three-course Provençal meal under the
watchful eye of young supremo Pascal Volle at L’École
Gourmande au Domaine de Valmouriane (Petite Route
des Baux; -----), one of the region’s most
vaunted cooking schools. Leave Avignon at : a.m. for
the half-hour drive south to St-Rémy, birthplace of Nostradamus, on the western side of Les Alpilles. There, you
meet Volle outside the Église St-Martin, on the Place de
la République, at : a.m. to shop at his favorite market
stalls for the raw ingredients for your lesson (our booty included slender artichokes, tapenade the consistency of
newly poured tar, shiny-eyed sea
bass, and plump figs) [Fig. 13]. You
then follow Volle in your car to the
hotel and line up with the other
apron-clad students in the bright
kitchen. Volle is a good-humored
and patient teacher, speaks fluent
English (albeit with a deep southern French accent), and has a refreshingly léger spin on Provençal cooking—he uses little butter or cream. At the end of the session you’ll be
given the recipes for everything you cooked, so don’t
bother scribbling notes. The first lesson is preparation—
it’s as crucial, especially with these ingredients, as what
you do with them. Today’s menu begins with Artichokes
Barigoule: After we prepare the vegetables [Fig. 14], we
cook them in a pan with diced carrots and onion, smoked
bacon, and white wine (“a glass for the pot, a glass for the
chef”), then simmer for  minutes with stock and lemon
[Fig. 12]
Jean-Claude Altmayer’s communal chef ’s
table is in the bowels
of La Mirande; this
part of the hotel is so
ancient that there’s
even a Roman well.
C O N D É N A S T T R AV E L E R / c n t r a v e l e r. c o m
[Fig. 13]
Wednesday is market day in the pretty town of St-Rémy,
and the stalls spill
into the boulevards
and squares of the
old town.
juice; the sauce is thickened with agar-agar. Next, we
learn to scale and debone the sea bass, then stuff it with
tapenade and fennel, season, sauté, and bake with a
dash of stock, while the figs are stewed in red wine with
cinnamon leaves and honey. You scoff the results in the
dining room with your fellow amateur chefs.
Leave Domaine de Valmouriane by  p.m. for the drive
back to St-Rémy, where you’re spending the afternoon.
Pay a visit to legendary chocolatier Joël Durand ( blvd.
Victor-Hugo; -----), just off the main square.
Durand, who opened his first boutique at the age of ,
infuses his chocolates with a radical array of spices. Next,
walk to the Musée Estrine (-----), in a handsome  stone house in the heart of the old town. The
museum is worth a visit for its collection of  works by
Albert Gleizes, on the second floor. Gleizes lived in StRémy from  until ; he
was, with Picasso, Braque, and
Léger, one of the most important
French Cubists, and the paintings here chart the evolution of
his style from Impressionist
landscapes to splashy, upbeat
Cubist works. The ground floor
houses an homage to St-Rémy’s
most famous son, or inmate,
Vincent Van Gogh, in the form of reproductions of many
of his paintings—sadly, there are no original works.
In May , Van Gogh admitted himself to the
Monastère St-Paul-de-Mausolée (Route des Baux; ----), an asylum on the outskirts of town, after
taking a razor to his ear in Arles. Despite, or because
of, his fragile mental state, the year he spent here was
one of his most productive—Van Gogh painted Starry
Night and many self-portraits and landscapes at the
Monastère and in the countryside (he was permitted to
walk an hour from the asylum). It’s your next stop (unless you have an urge to stretch your legs, skip the Van
Gogh walk from town to the clinic, with yet more reproductions of works, and drive). As a museum, the Romanesque building is somewhat wanting—the descriptions
of the artist’s time here and of the barbaric treatments
patients were subjected to, tacked to the walls, are convoluted and confusing—but the building itself is stunning. It’s easy to summon the ghost of Van Gogh and
Skip the pre-Roman remains at Glanum, south of
St-Rémy. They’re nothing compared with THE
BEAUTIES YOU’LL SEE AT ARLES, which
include an amphitheater and full baths complex
imagine him gazing melancholically out at the muted
Provençal landscape from the window on the second
floor, or wandering dejectedly among the lavender and
ancient apricot trees outside—and to marvel at how the
artist and his madness transformed these soft shades
into vibrant, urgent, graphic canvases.
Be sure to leave St-Rémy no later than five o’clock
for the -minute drive to France’s Wild West. The
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change in scenery as you head south on the D is
astounding: Mountain ranges give way to the bleak,
flat land of the Camargue, a marshy delta between
the Mediterranean and the two branches of the
Rhône that feels like another continent. Your base,
for one night, is the Mas de Peint (-----;
doubles, $–$). A stone farmhouse with eight
rooms that are simply but tastefully furnished (unlike
the full-on-crazy chintz of your previous two lodgings),
it’s on a ,-acre estate owned by the Bon family. Dinner is booked for  p.m., so when you’ve checked in, had
a dip in the pool, and showered, head back along the
D to Chez Bob (Mas Petite Antonelle, Route Sambuc
Villeneuve Gageron; -----; prix fixe, $), in
a cozy farmhouse built in . Bob arrived here in ,
planning to stay a week; we’re lucky he never left, because his anchoïade (an anchovy and garlic dip that’s
slathered on crudités) and his maigret de canard and
bull steak grilled over the flames in the dining room’s
inglenook fireplace are very good indeed, their unalloyed rustic flavors a huge contrast, like the landscape,
to everything else you’ve eaten this week.
Day 6 (Thursday): The Camargue
Y
ou’re heading deep into the Camargue this morning, so after breakfast, check out of your room
and meet your jeep driver in reception at  a.m. (If you
don’t speak fluent French, be sure to ask the receptionist to book you an English-speaking driver. Mine
declared that he spoke “pas d’un mot d’anglais,” and
his southern accent was, to my ears, as impenetrable
as Glaswegian.) The jeep tour takes you deep into this
pays sauvage punctuated with briny ponds—whence
derives the region’s famous fleur de sel, or sea salt.
You’ll see the black bulls native to the Camargue—
they look like ink blots among the wind-whipped
reeds and grasses—and your driver will tell you
about the ancient tradition of bullfighting, which
persists today. Every village in these parts has its
own arena, and bullfighters begin training at the
age of  at an école taurine, where they learn to
swipe a piece of cotton from the bull’s head using a
special comb. It’s a risky but lucrative sport: The winner
gets about $, a pop (“C’est le business!” said our
driver). You’ll also see the Camargue’s trademark freeroaming white horses and some of its  bird species,
including herons, and, if you’re lucky, flamingos. The
younger members of the flamingo flock fly to the
warmer climes of North Africa in the fall, but a few oldies remain; witnessing their ludicrously long, slight
forms drift over the Étang de Vaccarès lagoon is quite
an experience [Fig. 15].
Back at the hotel, hop into your car and drive north on
the D to Arles. You’re exploring this Roman sparkler
and UNESCO World Heritage Site on your own this afternoon, so after dropping off your car at Parking du Centre,
head on foot across the boulevard des Lices and through
the Jardin d’Été to the Théâtre Antique (-----;
hours vary). Chances are the theater will be closed, but
don’t worry: You get an uninterrupted view of this extraordinarily well-preserved perfect semicircle, built at
[Fig. 14]
Chef Pascal Volle’s
first lesson is on the
delicate art of artichoke preparation:
You remove the outer leaves and the
fuzzy core and leave
the heart and a few
inner leaves.

ICONIC ITINERARIES
Provence
[Fig. 15]
The Camargue’s distinctive wild white
horses are an ancient, hardy species
that are born black
or brown and gradually blanch.
[Fig. 16]
Arles’s Roman amphitheater still fills
during bull-fighting
season, and it’s extraordinary how little its design differs
from that of modernday arenas.

the end of the first century b.c., from outside. Then walk
north to Roman Arles’s pièce de résistance, the Amphithéâtre, designed by architect T. Crispus Reburrus
(also responsible for Nîmes’s amphitheater), with a capacity of , [Fig. 16]. Climb the tower for a magnificent view of Arles and the Rhône River beyond. Next,
stroll down the rue Raspail and turn left onto the rue du
Quatre Septembre. (If you’re wondering why you keep
finding yourself on streets with this name, it’s because
September , , is the date on which France’s Third Republic was established.) The rue
du Quatre Septembre leads to
the Baths of Constantine, which
are among France’s best preserved and are one of three
such complexes in Arles. Your
Amphithéâtre ticket is good for
the baths, too; be sure to pick
up a mini guide at the entry kiosk—distinguishing the tepidarium from the caldarium is tricky without it. The complex, a foundation of Roman social life where men and
women of all walks of life would steam, splash, and socialize, was built during the reign of Emperor Constantine the Great in the fourth century a.d. Much of the
compound remains unexcavated, but most of the intricate redbrick lattice–patterned frigidarium, tepidarium,
caldarium, and laconicum (sauna) have been exposed,
and you can see the brick stacks that formed the underfloor heating system. It should be about  p.m. by now—
time to grab a quick lunch at one of the city’s cafés. One
option is the attractive Jardin des Arts ( rue de la République; -----; lunch entrées, $–$).
After your meal, walk to the Église St-Trophime. The
most impressive parts of the church are the astoundingly
detailed Romanesque West Portal, on the Place de la République, and the Cloister, a complex built for the canons
(priests who attended the bishop). You’ll recognize the
symbols of the Evangelists surrounding Christ on the
tympanum of the portal from the cloisters you saw in
Aix’s Cathédrale St-Sauveur; even more extraordinary
is the army of carved saints below and the angels
above. The peaceful cloister galleries
provide another three-dimensional recap of the headliners of Christianity: A
depiction of the patron saints of the Église Arles and of the Easter Mystery is
on the north side; the Passion of Christ
and scenes from his life occupy the gallery’s eastern side; the story of Saint
Trophime, the patron saint of Arles,
makes up the older southern gallery; and other popular
biblical stories are on the western side. Don’t miss the
collection of seventeenth-century tapestries (some of
the world’s finest examples from that period), depicting
scenes from battle and the story of Saint Trophime.
Aim to leave Arles by five to drive to the hilltop village
of Gordes, on the edge of the Plateau de Vaucluse, via the
N, the A to Cavaillon, and then the D. The trip will
take about two hours, so you should arrive in Gordes in
time for sunset—and there aren’t many better vantage
points in the whole region than your base for the last two
nights, La Bastide de Gordes & Spa (-----;
doubles, $–$), on the edge of the village, directly
above the Luberon Valley. That said, the hotel does have
its cons. The rooms, apart from the pricey suites, are
nothing to write home about; the staff are less than effusive; and there are numerous added costs: The weak WiFi is $ per day (yes, really). The alternative is La Bastide
de Marie (-----; doubles, $), amid vines,
olive groves, and lavender fields between Gordes and
Bonnieux. It has bucketloads more charm: The guest
rooms have wrought-iron four-poster beds, exposedbrick walls, and claw-foot tubs. The catch here is that it’s
a bit out of the way and the considerable rates are demipensione, meaning they include breakfast and dinner;
Think the plains of Africa are the only place you’ll
spy flamingos? There are 30,000 in Provence’s
WILD CAMARGUE REGION—their pink
complexion is due to their shrimp and plankton diet
although the food is good, chances are you’ll want to explore the area’s other culinary offerings. Speaking of
which, dinner tonight has been booked for  p.m. at
L’Estaminet (Place du Village; -----; entrées,
$–$), a casual, inexpensive bistro a stone’s throw
from La Bastide de Gordes.
Y
Day 7 (Friday): The Luberon
our last day in Provence will be spent exploring le paysage of the Luberon Valley. Be sure
you get up early, while the mist is hanging like a
shroud over Gordes, buy a breakfast croissant from
the boulangerie-pâtisserie on the rue de l’Église, opposite the castle, and eat it in the shadow of the mighty
ramparts while you study the map and decide which of
France’s Plus Beaux Villages are most deserving of your
attention. There are so many gorgeous medieval hilltop
hamlets in the département of Vaucluse that you can’t go
wrong whichever crop you choose—and since it’s October and most travelers have dispersed, you won’t have to
use your elbows to get that photo. But since you have
only this morning—the afternoon will be spent toasting
your Provençal vacation plusieurs fois during an escorted
wine tasting—plan which villages to hit before you set
off. One good option is a loop of three villages below
the N: Lacoste, Ménerbes, and Oppède-le-Vieux.
Lacoste is crowned by a castle occupied by that notorious penner of filth, the Marquis de Sade, in the late
eighteenth century. It’s now owned by fashion designer Pierre Cardin, who holds a music festival there every July. To get to the castle, walk up the narrow cobbled
rue St-Trophime and onto the rue de la Frescado; then
turn right and up the narrow chemin du Château to the
ruins (the estate was sacked by an angry mob in ).
The castle is surrounded by contemporary sculpture and
looks down on the village and as far as the medieval
ridgetop village of Ménerbes, four miles west [Fig. 17].
Ménerbes was the setting for Peter Mayle’s A Year in
[Fig. 17]
Libertine writer
the Marquis de Sade
turned ancient
Lacoste castle into an
X-rated fiefdom, and
it was here that he
wrote his magnum
opus Les 120
Journées de Sodome.
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ICONIC ITINERARIES
Provence
[Fig.18]
Côtes du Rhône is
the second-largest
wine region in
France; syrah and
grenache grapes are
the most prevalent.
Provence. Needless to say, the expat invasion that followed its publication did not ingratiate Mayle with the
locals. (After he moved away, a sign was installed on the
outskirts of the village advising visitors not to ask after
Mayle or the whereabouts of his house—so don’t drop
his name.) Once you’ve parked your car on the avenue
Marcellin Poncet, follow the signs to the Maison de la
Truffe et du Vin (Place de l’Horloge; -----),
which lead through steep lanes of houses with rustcolored shutters, the air suffused with the smell of
wood smoke and fresh bread, to the main square with
its seventeenth-century town hall topped with a
wrought-iron campanile. The Maison’s cellar is stocked
with every wine produced in the Parc Naturel Régional
du Luberon; tastings are offered, as well as information
on truffle harvesting, which starts around November 
and runs through the end of
March. Eighty percent of
French truffles come from
the Vaucluse region. From
here, walk to the sixteenthcentury Église St-Luc for
spectacular views of the tealcolored Luberon Mountains.
Before you hit the feudal
village of Oppède-le-Vieux
proper, take a walk through
the valley beneath it. You’ll find signs to the Sentier
Vigneron d’Oppède at the village parking lot—it’s a
-minute signposted walk that takes in an extraordinary variety of typical Provençal flora, with the Luberon
Mountains as an omnipresent backdrop. You start at a
botanic garden planted with rosemary, lavender, and
wild sage; amble along a narrow path through an oak
forest and onto the D for a short spell; then down a
shady path through pine trees and onto a dirt track beside russet vines heavy with purple fruit—the stony soil
produces good grenache, syrah, and cinsault grapes;
and, finally, past groves of boxy olive trees. When you’re
level with the parking lot, turn right and walk uphill to
the village, where you’ll find a great lunch spot, Le Petit
Café (Place de la Croix; -----; prix fixe, $),
in a leafy square. If it’s warm, sit at one of the tables on
the terrace. Afterward, spend half an hour exploring
this unspoiled hamlet, now an artistic and farming
(principally grapes and cherries) community, including
the church, Notre-Dame-d’Alidon, built in the twelfth
century, enlarged in the sixteenth (note its cobalt-blue
ceiling decorated with fleurs-de-lis and stars). Pick up a
copy of “The Old Village of Oppède Historical Outline” in the church to discover more about the colorful past of Oppède-le-Vieux up to , when the
area was annexed to France: its Celto-Ligurian and
Roman roots, its bloody battles with the Visigoths
and the Saracens, its dynastic struggles (between
the tenth and thirteenth centuries), and its devastatation under the scourge of Black Death.
From Oppède, drive back to your hotel, where
you’re meeting your guide and chauffeur for the afternoon, Pierre Bertou (-----), a shoe fetishist, oenophile, former record shop owner and DJ,
and a dropper of fascinating Provençal facts. His unparalleled Côtes du Rhône [Fig. 18] contacts mean he
can secure a cellar visit at just about any vineyard—
including the -plus Châteauneuf-du-Pape producers. Be warned, though: The best wine-producing estates are not necessarily the most atmospheric places to
visit (they’ve got more important things to do than
watch you knock back their vin rouge), and vice versa,
but stick with Bertou and you’ll be fine—he can get you
into the back room of many vineyards where you’ll taste
multiple bottles, as opposed to the single pour you’ll
most likely get if you go solo. I chose to meander off the
beaten path and check out Domaine Terres de Solence
in Mazan (Chemin de la Lègue; -----), a relatively new “cosmo biodynamic vineyard” run by the
young husband-and-wife team Jean Luc and Anne Marie Isnard. They prune and pick their organic grapes according to the dictates of a homeopathic calendar, working with, rather than against, nature to achieve the best
expression of the terroir. Jean Luc explains the process
of fermentation and maceration and invites us to listen
to the wine bubbling in the oak casks. After a tasting, it’s
off to Chateauneuf-du-Pape country, just west of the A.
Wine was the lifeblood of the papacy: Before the popes’
arrival, viticulture was not an important industry here.
The popes were such bons viveurs that Petrarch declared
that it was easier to find good wine than holy water in
Avignon, and when the papacy returned to Rome, the
cardinals complained that the quality of the wine plummeted. Among the memorable wines I tasted there were
the figgy, leathery Domaine Bois de Boursan 
[Fig. 19]. To ward off papal-style withdrawal, buy a few
bottles, wrap them in a sweater, and pop them in your
suitcase (malheureusement, Provençal producers won’t
ship to the United States), and you’ll be able to banish
post-vacation blues by raising a glass to la belle France
back home. A votre santé!
[Fig. 19]
Chateâuneuf-duPape is revered because the appellation
d’origine contrôlée
(AOC) permits 18
different grape varieties to be included
in each wine.
How to Book Contact Jill Jergel of Frontiers (--; jjergel@frontierstravel.com). You can buy this trip as is or
customize it. But first, go to cntraveler.com/travelagentfinder for crucial advice on how to get the most out of working with a travel
specialist. The cost of the seven-day tour described here is roughly $, per person, based on double occupancy. This includes all
hotels, Jergel’s planning fee, the balloon ride, Avignon and Luberon half-day guides, the cooking lesson, and the olive grove tour. The
price does not include breakfast, the Calanques boat ride, spa treatments, tips, car rental, gas, entrance fees, traveler’s insurance,
flights, or meals (except Jean-Claude Altmayer’s chef’s table).
The Adventure Continues Online For an easy-to-print PDF of this article–plus
access to our entire Iconic Itineraries library—go to cntraveler.com/iconictrips after June .

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