I'm strolling through the Lourmarin market, utterly captivated by this charming Provencal man I've been following. He's shopping, likely preparing for a delectable lunch later today, selecting the freshest, most in-season produce. He must be a regular; all the stall owners greet him with a warm familiarity. 

I can't take my eyes off him. 

He's the epitome of what the French do best at markets: flirt.

I believe the French enter markets with the intention of falling in love. 

Right now, his affection is focused on the tomatoes. He picks up an heirloom tomato, holding it tenderly, closing his eyes, leaning in to inhale its scent deeply. He devotes his full attention to this simple delight, not rushing but savouring the moment. He lets out a little sigh; his shoulders quiver with pleasure—a frisson—and he smiles. The woman at the stall beams at him, delighted by his obvious appreciation for her tomatoes.

I'm absolutely fascinated.

The French flirt with their vegetables, their flowers, their cheese, and each other. They embrace adoration as an act that has the intent of savouring life; a day is meaningful if you've fallen in love.

I've come here to reignite my joie de vivre, so now it's my turn.

I approach the cheesemonger. He stands behind wheels of Beaufort, Comté, Morbier, and, of course, the small discs of fresh chèvre. As I draw nearer, he smiles, welcoming and anticipatory. "Just wait," he says, "until you taste these!"

There’s no hurry, no rush, just the pure joy of savouring cheese. I begin my journey. 

When I suggest that I might be taking too much of his time, he laughs softly as if wondering why I’d want to be anywhere else. And honestly, at this moment, I can’t think of a reason either.

Each cheese is introduced to me as a potential new love. I get to know each one slowly, inhaling its scent and feeling its texture. I taste them slowly, allowing them to melt in my mouth as I savour them, feeling that delightful shiver begin. 

Eventually, I choose something to bring home. He visibly delights in my selection, sharing with me the perfect temperature to serve it, the ideal wine to accompany it, and the best meal to follow.

Honestly, I’ve had dates with less passion.

When I finally unwrapped my cheese at home (I left it on the counter, as he had suggested—room temperature to allow it to breathe), I greeted it with a playful, "Bonjour, mon ami. I've been looking forward to spending time with you all day."

The flirtation continued well into the evening, and this lesson in joie de vivre lingers: Adoration. Savouring. Love. These are the outcomes of the day when I choose to carry them as the lenses that I use to experience the world. They are waiting for me if I am willing to slow down, be present and interact with the beauty that surrounds me. 

Market day has forever changed me. I am going to lean into each day with the same intention as they do in Provence: to fall in love.

One epiphany at a time, 

Tania