First, to all of you who have been wondering where and how I’ve been the last couple of weeks, thanks for your concern — definitely feeling the love.  Second, the short answer: the South of France, and it’s fantastic.

This is true, for me, especially in the morning.  I enjoy nothing more than sitting in a straw-backed chair at some random cafe, watching the days begin for so many locals:  parents holding hands of school children on the way to/from class, town markets packaging up olives and meats and cheeses and vegetables for customers, and friends sitting down for a coffee and croissant.  The best thing, though, has got to be the baguette.

It is true, in my limited experience at least, after investing money, years and energy into baking, studying and experiencing bread and pastry, there is something otherworldly about the traditional French baguette.  It is perfection; a bronze rainbow of powdery white and golden tan, an ideal balance of textures — chewy, soft, crunchy, not moist but not dry — sublime with fresh butter and jam, yet deliciously delightful bare.  My most favorite sight is watching everyone, *everyone*, enter the local boulangerie at the start of the day and exit with a full baguette wrapped in paper or thin plastic, tucked neatly under the arm, peaking out of a purse or shopping bag, or just in hand, ripe and ready for noshing.  I’ve taken to copying this local custom, having so far supplemented my own diet with more bread per day than I’ve eaten since high school, when carbs were “in.”  When something as simple as flour and water baked in a hearth make you smile on the regular, you know you’re in a good place.

Of course, there is more to life than breakfast.  At the moment I’m settled in Les Adrets,  a village in the mountains north of Antibes, which sits on the coast of Cote d’Azur in between Nice and Cannes; as you can imagine, just taking in the gorgeous scenery is a daily event.  Otherwise, my schedule usually involves happily teaching a little prenatal yoga and quietly, patiently, studying French, in the hopes that I might at least be able to communicate with three-year olds by the end of my short stay here.  There’s a little spontaneity, too — last weekend, for instance, I paraglided off of a mountain near Grasse, a town located close to Provence, and loved it (you didn’t think I came here just for the bread, did you?)

More often that not, though, just like in my beloved NYC, I spend hours walking the paths of the village in which I live and nearby areas, observing the expressions of others, wandering cobblestone streets, checking out the produce market and window shopping, all the while keeping an eye out for the nearest espresso-serving rest stop that promises hours of time for reading, watching and reflection.  I’ve tried to get ideas from my trusty travel guide, but I can’t seem to commit to reading it for long, and that’s alright… I find that meandering often takes me to places no less interesting and worthy.

So, if you’re sitting at home, sitting at your desk, having a conversation on travel or otherwise, and you happen to wonder where I am and what I’m doing, you can now make an educated guess.  I could be teaching a yoga session, or choosing tomatoes, or maybe tasting olives.  But I’m just as likely walking casually around the old town centre of some city here in the South, broken baguette pieces in hand, in search of the perfect cafe.