Experiencing Provence: A Mother-Daughter Trip After COVID-19

A mother-daughter trip to this sunbaked, agriculturally rich slice of southern France offered a chance to reconnect — with each other and with friends.

On the evening of March 11, 2020, I called my daughter Hallie, who was studying in Aix-en-Provence, in southern France. I told her we’d booked her a flight home; she’d have to be on the 7 a.m. bus to the Marseille airport the next morning.

“What?” she kept asking. It was 2 a.m. in France. “What’s happening?”

Just two weeks earlier I’d been with her in Aix. On February 29 — Leap Year Day — we went to Paris. Ste.-Chapelle, the Musée d’Orsay, cafés, the Métro: all packed. I’d known things were bad in China and Italy; now, in hindsight, my wishful thinking seemed reckless.

Later I learned that Hallie’s host mother, Marie-Paule, woke on the morning of March 12 to discover that her American students had all fled overnight. On our daughter’s bed, she found a pile of clothing and souvenirs — things Hallie thought she’d have time to ship home — and a note scrawled in haste: Chère Marie-Paule, S’il vous plaît, donnez ou recyclez tout ce que vous pouvez. Merci pour tout. J’espère vous revoir bientôt.

Then came long months of isolation at home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Masking, testing, disinfecting groceries. Our neighbors, Amy and Jon, invited us to sit on their deck and sample wines from Domaine Montrose, in the French Languedoc region. Their son Geoffrey works at the vineyard. Hallie and I drank rosés with Jon and Amy, listening to them describe the life Geoffrey has in the south of France. Or used to have, before COVID. From this distance, sipping this wine, it was easier to imagine France in the present tense.

Fast-forward to April 2021, when President Macron announced the four planned stages of the réouverture: on May 19 (stage 2), nonessential businesses would reopen; cafés and restaurants would allow some outdoor dining; the 7 p.m. couvre-feu, curfew, would be extended to 9.

Hallie was about to graduate with her degree in French. As a graduation gift, I decided to take her back to France. A chance to see friends and say proper goodbyes. Jon and Amy connected us with Geoffrey, and we arranged a side trip to visit him in Montpellier.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Hallie kept saying. It did feel miraculous, and somehow ephemeral, as if we were on borrowed time.

We landed in Paris on May 24 and caught a connecting flight. It was a clear morning — the Seine below us shimmered gold in the rising sun. By the time we descended into Marseille, sky and sea were an ecstatic blue, nearly indistinguishable. As the limestone cliffs of the Mediterranean coastline rose to meet us, the father and son beside me pressed their faces to the window and spoke excitedly in rapid French.

We took the bus into Aix, the windows cracked to admit the breeze. The plane trees, skeletal last February, were lush with green. “I never got to see it like this,” Hallie said. “In bloom.” We’d rented the flat where I had stayed last time, a spacious one-bedroom beside Aix’s historic Place d’Albertas. Patrick and Mireille, the owners, met us on the street. Both did la bise, kissing our masked cheeks.

“On a été vaccinées,” Hallie said quickly.

“We are vaccinated too,” Patrick said.

Inside, Patrick told us about the lockdowns, the attestation de déplacement documents required to leave their home. Patrick and Mireille, literature lovers, were eager to hear about Hallie’s senior thesis, an analysis of the works of French-Guadeloupean novelist Maryse Condé. Mireille said we were the first guests to stay in their flat since the last time I’d been there. “So you see, it is almost as if no time has passed,” she said.

That evening we had dinner with Emma, one of Hallie’s former classmates. Emma is British, from London, and exactly my age. Her husband, Mark, works at the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor (ITER), in Cadarache, just north of Aix. If all goes as planned, Emma said, ITER will become the world’s largest and most powerful fusion device: an endless source of safe, non-carbon-emitting energy.

Back at the flat, we flung the balcony doors open. It was still light out, and the silence — broken only by the occasional sound of a moped — was eerie. “I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Hallie kept saying. It did feel miraculous, and somehow ephemeral, as if we were on borrowed time.

Exploring Montpellier

The following day we rode the train 3½ hours west to Montpellier. We met up with Geoffrey — Jon and Amy’s son — on the Promenade du Peyrou, just past Montpellier’s Arc de Triomphe. Geoffrey has lived in France for 11 years, speaks impeccable French, and in 2019 officially became a French citizen.

I ripped a scrap from my journal and wrote “Vive la France.” It wasn’t really a wish. But standing in front of this centuries-old tree — on a glorious spring afternoon, my daughter and Geoffrey, our new friend, beside me — I couldn’t think of a single thing more to wish for.

The Promenade’s focal point is a large statue of King Louis XIV on horseback. Le Roi Soleil, the Sun King — a nickname Louis apparently gave himself. The ruler who would enlighten the minds of his subjects and become the center around which they would orbit. From the esplanade at the back of the park, the panoramic views of Montpellier were stunning.

After touring the Cathédrale St.-Pierre (nicknamed “Fort St. Peter” because of its fortress-like appearance), we went to the Jardin des Plantes de Montpellier, the oldest botanical garden in France, established in 1593. There we found a Phillyrea latifolia tree whose knotty trunk was pocked with cavities. Inside each one was a bit of folded paper. “At more than 400 years old,” the placard read, “this filaire à feuille large is the oldest tree in the garden.” Visitors confess to the tree their most secret desires, writing them on small pieces of paper and tucking them into the notches. The tree has become known as la boîte aux lettres des amoureux — the lover’s mailbox.

I ripped a scrap from my journal and wrote “Vive la France.” It wasn’t really a wish. But standing in front of this centuries-old tree — on a glorious spring afternoon, my daughter and Geoffrey, our new friend, beside me — I couldn’t think of a single thing more to wish for.

“Vines are like people,” Geoffrey said. “They have a lifespan.” We were in Geoffrey’s car, driving into the Languedoc countryside. Vineyards were everywhere. “A young vine takes about three years to start producing. For a while, it’s robust. As it begins to age, it produces less. But the older grapes have a richer, more concentrated flavor.

“It’s an exciting time to be producing in this region,” he continued. “Since the late twentieth century, Languedoc has been experiencing a renaissance. Some of the best wines in the world, in terms of value, are coming out of here now, in part because the vintners still work in nonindustrial ways to create quality wines with their own identity.”

“What’s the industrial way?” Hallie asked.

“Lots of additives,” Geoffrey said. “Blending without paying attention to the terroir.”

Domaine Montrose was founded in 1701 and has been owned and operated by the same family ever since. Bernard Coste and his children Olivier and Jeanne are the current owners. Their ancestral lands boast three distinct types of soil: clay-limestone; Villafranchian terraces, where the ground is full of heat-trapping pebbles; and a dark volcanic soil. Grapes from this third type are rare in France. “But a wine’s terroir encompasses more than soil,” Geoffrey explained. “It also includes things like sun exposure, the slope of the land, and weather patterns.”

We slowed and pulled into a long driveway between rows of four-foot-high vines, where I spotted the clusters of nascent grapes, bright green. We were greeted by Lascar, the family’s dog, a gentle giant. He licked Hallie’s hand and went back to lie in the shady courtyard.

The Coste home is the type of traditional country manor found in the south of France: large and warm and elegantly rustic, with a sun-soaked ocher façade, gray-blue wooden shutters, and a terra-cotta-tiled roof. I noticed a sundial painted onto the north-facing wall. Above it were the Latin words DUCERE SOLE EO (Let the sun guide him). The grounds were verdant: loquat trees with ripe yellow fruits, tall arid pines, low palms, cypress.

It was a busy market day. The squares were jammed with vendors selling vegetables and fruits in rainbow colors; baskets of peonies and roses in every shade of pink; thick melty sheep cheeses and thin hard goat cheeses flavored with herbs; shimmery fish and craggy oysters laid out on chipped ice; handcrafted Marseille soap; and jars of honeycomb.

Geoffrey led us through a pair of rustic wooden doors into the dark coolness of the aboveground cellar, where Michel Le Goaec — who, along with Olivier, is in charge of the wine’s development — was expecting us. Le Goaec has been cellar master of Domaine Montrose since 1995, the year the vineyard started producing its own bottles, rather than just selling grapes in bulk to the local cooperative. My French is passable but nowhere near advanced enough to handle the vocabulary of wine making, so he was gracious enough to explain the basics in English.

After harvesting, which is done at night, the grapes are placed into a pneumatic press. A balloon gently inflates to squeeze the fruit against the press’s sides, and the juice falls into an underground receptacle. This method — allowing gravity to do the work — minimizes damage to the grapes. Sometimes the skins are immediately removed after pressing; for certain wines, especially premium rosés, the juice is allowed to macerate with the skins in order to extract color and tannins. The solids then settle to the bottom, and the liquid is pumped into tanks made of concrete (for reds) or stainless steel (for whites and rosés) for fermentation. Michel explained that he uses a variety of yeasts to produce variations in flavor. When there is no more sugar for the yeast to “eat,” Le Goaec said, fermentation is complete.

As he began to describe his blending process — “The first red is the most difficult; sometimes I must blend up to five varieties to discover the right notes” — I struggled to understand. It wasn’t a language barrier as much as a conceptual one. Blending is an acquired skill, sensory, impossible to learn without years of trial and error. It was where “how-to” ended and savoir-faire began.

“There’s a certain mystique surrounding wine making,” Geoffrey said later. We were standing at the top of the Valros Tower next to the Montrose property. VOUS ÊTES AU SOMMET D’UN ÎLOT VOLCANIQUE! the placard read. (You are at the top of a volcanic island!) The site held a necropolis from the seventh to 10th centuries and a fortress in the 13th century. The views of the surrounding countryside were breathtaking. A directional sign pointed out the various appellations, or wine-making regions: AOP Minervois; AOP Corbières. In one spot, someone had drawn an arrow in Sharpie: CANADA.

“Despite that mystique,” Geoffrey continued, “at the end of the day it’s all about this.” He spread his arms wide to indicate the vines. “Agriculture. Subject to the elements. At its roots, wine making is a humble vocation.”

Back at the house, lunch was waiting. Geoffrey introduced us to Bernard Coste; his wife, Marie; and their son Olivier, who now oversees the family business. We later met Olivier’s wife, Valentine, and their three children. All the adults exuded a natural, enviable youthfulness — in fact, until I met Valentine, I mistook Marie for the children’s mother. “Vos enfants sont si mignons.” Your children are so cute. “Ah, mes petits-enfants!” Marie laughed.

The children fished for tadpoles in the stone pond while the rest of us snacked on fava beans and made small talk. We drank a rosé called the Prestige, a blend of Grenache and Rolle grapes. It had hints of mandarin and spice. The main course was bourride de baudroie: stewed monkfish and vegetables mixed with homemade mayonnaise and served over rice. We drank the Montrose signature cuvéee, 1701, a blend of Grenache Noir from the volcanic terroir and Roussanne from the garrigue, or scrubland. Partly aged in oak barrels, the 1701 is considered one of the best rosés in the world.

While we ate, Bernard described the transformation of his ancestral vineyard from a small weekend operation to a full-time family business with a worldwide market. It sells in large volumes to countries with colder climates: the U.K., Norway, Germany. Marie told me they’d decided to make this onetime summer home their year-round dwelling in large part because she wanted to live there as a family, parents and children and grandchildren together. The Costes were the embodiment of the dichotomy Geoffrey mentioned earlier: mystique and humility in effortless, elegant symbiosis.

During the cheese course, Olivier rose from his chair.

“We believe wine should be accessible to everyone, not just connoisseurs,” he said in English. “Rosé is an easy wine to drink. It’s approachable, full of warmth, family, and friendship.”

“When you drink our wines, you’re drinking the south of France and our lifestyle here,” he said. I thought of the sundial I’d spotted earlier: let the sun guide him. And I couldn’t help thinking of the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor. An unexpected confluence: generations of winemakers bottling the sun and shipping it out to the world; scientists from around the world coming here to build a synthetic sun. The visionaries of past and future, in the south of France, 150 miles apart.

Back in the center of Aix, it was a busy market day. The squares were jammed with vendors selling vegetables and fruits in rainbow colors; baskets of peonies and roses in every shade of pink; thick melty sheep cheeses and thin hard goat cheeses flavored with herbs; shimmery fish and craggy oysters laid out on chipped ice; handcrafted Marseille soap; and jars of honeycomb.

Hallie and I walked uphill on Avenue Paul Cézanne, hoping to visit Atelier de Cézanne, where the famous artist worked from 1902 until his death in 1906. Alas, the studio was still closed because of COVID. On the way back we stopped at Aix Cathedral, where children in white robes flocked near the entrance for the first in-person confirmation since the lockdowns ended. Hallie and I entered the coolness of the nave. The cantor sang a hymn while the children — hundreds of them, it seemed — processed in. The priest called each child up by name, and we heard their voices responding, one by one: me voici. Here I am. The priest explained that the profession was metaphorical, that they were claiming their place within the Catholic Church. But sitting inside that packed cathedral, I couldn’t help hearing the phrase a little differently.

The Vineyard Experience

The day before we left, we were invited to have lunch on the terrace with Marie-Paule, Hallie’s host mother, and her husband, Xavier. Their daughter Juliette would also join us. “They’re a little bit formal,” Hallie had told me. “You’ll have to speak in French. Xavier doesn’t speak English. Plus it’s their job to make sure I get practice.”

The house was a short walk from the historic city center. Marie-Paule was hospitable and friendly and hugged us both. Xavier is an amateur photographer; their daughter Juliette attends a nearby university. We sat beneath an awning beside their swimming pool. After olives and chips, Marie-Paule brought out a salad of bulgur, eggplant, peppers, and nectarines, topped with feta and another type of cheese, the name of which Marie-Paule couldn’t remember.

“C’est de Chypre,” she said.

I heard “sheep,” so we took turns guessing. Manchego? Roquefort?

“Non,” Xavier said. “Chypre.”

“Je comprends,” I said. “Mouton. Baa baa.”

Marie-Paule and Xavier looked at one another and laughed. “On veut dire le pays,” Marie-Paule said. (We mean the country.) The cheese — Halloumi — was from Cyprus. Chypre.

After lunch we went indoors and Xavier showed us some of his artwork, photographs he’d taken on a visit to New York City. (They loved it, they said, but is it always so dirty?) And then it was time for the long-awaited goodbye.

“Thank you so much for everything you did for me last year,” Hallie said. I could tell she was emotional. Marie-Paule gave her a brisk hug.

“You will be back,” she said, as if it were an established fact. “Both of you.”

Perhaps, I thought. Me voici. In that moment, in Aix, it was enough.

Aix-en-Provence

Where to Stay

Hôtel Le Pigonnet: While it’s only a 10-minute walk to town, this 48-room property has a secluded feel, thanks to its expansive fountain-dotted gardens.

Where to Eat and Drink

Crêpes à GoGo: Located in an underground tunnel, this lunch spot is a little hard to find, but worth it for the best crêpes in Aix.

Mickaël Fével: For contemporary French food, this Michelin-starred restaurant is one of Aix’s fancier dinner options (lunch is decidedly less formal).

What to Do

Atelier de Cézanne: Visit the studio of Paul Cézanne, where he created some of the world’s most famous Post-Impressionist paintings.

Place Richelme Market: This farmers’ market in the center of town offers the highest-quality produce available, as well as cheese, bread, and flowers.

Montpellier

Where to Stay

Hôtel Oceania Le Métropole Montpellier: Steps from the main train station, this modern hotel has a pool and spacious rooms, yet retains touches of its origins, like the hydraulic elevator from 1898.

Where to Eat and Drink

Augusta Vins d’Auteurs: A bar and shop with a large selection of organic and natural wines from throughout France, along with a frequently changing menu of regional cuisine.

Chez Pinot: This intimate wine bar features a deep list from the south of France, as well as tapas-style dishes. Let the owner surprise you with his pairing suggestions.

Des Rêves & du Pain: Some of the best baked goods in Montpellier — including artisan bread, pastries, and cake — are sold at this small boulangerie.

Mahé: Seasonal food beautifully prepared in a cheerful dining room near the Lez River.

What to Do

Domaine Montrose: In Tourbes — about an hour’s drive south of Montpellier (or 2½ hours southwest of Aix-en-Provence) — the Coste family’s vineyard makes an ideal day trip.

Montpellier Botanical Garden: Created in 1593 by King Henri IV, this 11-acre park is the oldest botanical garden in France.

A version of this story first appeared in the June 2023 issue of iBestTravel under the headline “Postcard From Provence.”