I have read Peter Mayle's book every January for the last, hmmm, eight or nine years. My mom gave me the book (naturally) one year for Christmas, hmm, probably (dare I say it?) 20 years ago. (I was three at the time. haha) I "studied" in Provence my senior year at Oregon State (Go Beavers!). But that's an entirely different post.
I read A Year in Provence in January because it's just a nice, cozy book to curl up with after the hurly-burly of the holidays, and the drizzly, dreary weather of January. It reminds me of my time there - which (naturally), I loved. Plus, I love Mr. Mayle's, Peter's, writing style. (Sheesh, I've read the book 17 times now, at least. I think we're on a first-name basis.)
His stories about daily life in the Luberon are charming. And even the first time I read it, I felt that I really got to know his friends and neighbors: Faustin his vigneron, Menicucci his plumber, Didier his contractor, Masot the crazy old guy down the valley. He sprinkles his narrative with enough French phrases that I have to consult my French-English dictionary on several occasions (which I dig). His references to places I visited (and fell in love with) make my little coeur go pitter patter. Oui, c'est vrai.
Every night, after I turn off the light and before my pea brain shuts down for the day, I allow myself to dream about selling everything and doing what he and his wife did all those years ago: packing it all in and moving to a charming old farmhouse in the middle of a lavender field. C'est parfait, non?
What do you dream about in those sweet moments between wakefulness and sleeping?