On Saturday morning, April 18, I woke up in a comfortable single bed, inside a bright room on the troisième étage of the Hôtel des Arts, and felt healthy for the first time since my arrival. After feeling mild malaise and a runny nose for several days, after sensing a fever Friday night, I had awakened during the night bathed in sweat, then woke up in the morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. We packed, settled our bill and left our bags in the lobby, then went out in search of coffee. It was a cold, cloudy-bright morning, with occasional gusts of wind. By good fortune we happened upon a brasserie called La Bourse that was oriented out of the wind and toward the diffuse sunlight so that sitting at a sidewalk table was comfortable, if the sun faded and the cold bit down at times. Besides, we were immunized from any foul winds by the perfect antidote: a strong coffee sweetened with rich cream, and a flaky, buttery croissant—both the best of any we had on the trip. Across a busy street we could stare at the looming gray classical façade of a building that might have been the stock exchange for which our brasserie is named. But now it seemed to be a church, and bore a simple cross high atop its otherwise unadorned pediment. Stock exchange or church, the huge building seemed out of scale with the rest of St-Rémy. Beside the building, in a narrow alley leading into the center of town, merchants were set up for the Saturday market, with tables of produce, wines, oils, nuts, and lots of lavender—an abundant provençale product, offered here in the form of soaps and loose, fragrant dried petals. We walked past the tables, tempted by everything but not wanting to add to our load with anything Then we meandered through the serpentine streets at the heart of town, which were mostly free of vehicles, and stopped whenever we happened upon the right shop—boulangerie, fromagerie—for picnic ingredients. We snapped a few photos among the ever enchanting streets. We even made the acquaintance of a friendly and wonderfully marbled gray cat; but as feline-deprived souls, Maryl and I were frustrated by the cat's refusal to pass through the tightly spaced iron rods that encircled his yard. These would have posed no challenge to him, but they made it difficult for us to reach him.

Toward noon we retrieved our luggage, packed up the car and headed eastward, following the signs for Cavaillon, a mere 20 km away, on the western edge of the département known as the Vaucluse. Once within the limits of that town I must have followed a wrong sign, because our road took us zig-zagging through some sort of Country Club, with tennis courts, before rejoining a thoroughfare that passed through blocks of shops that seemed closed. I recall hardly any sign of life in this town, except for one vehicle or another always right on my tail. (It was Saturday, so this was understandable to some degree.)

We certainly didn't go to Apt expecting much. The Rough Guide had this to say: “The sole town in the Luberon is APT, not much of a place for sightseeing, nor greatly renowned for the charm and friendliness of its people. Its large confectionary factory spews mucky froth into a concrete-channelled River Coulon and in early spring, when mimosa is blossoming down on the coast, the temperature around Apt can drop to well below freezing. It's nevertheless a useful base with excellent shops and a very lively Saturday market.” Remembering the experience described by Peter Mayle in A Year in Provence, about his first encounter with the Lubéron, I expected it to be the smallest town we stayed in, with a small hôtel, managed by a friendly older couple.

Apt did turn out to be a relatively small town, but the Auberge turned out to be the largest, busiest operation we dealt with. We paid a reasonable price of 290FF for a decent room with a sunny exposure and a view down onto the town. But we rarely saw the same person at the desk twice, and nearly all our encounters with staff members were abrupt—little of the warmth we experienced everywhere else. I did learn that the “auberge” designation indicates an establishment that generally provides meals as well as lodging to its guests. And their dining room always did seem busy with guests at mealtimes. But rather stuffy, as if all the guests were gentry. That feeling, coupled with their curt attitude led Maryl to vow that we would not eat there. Not being too fond of the atmosphere either, I was content with that.

Until we began looking for a place to eat on that Saturday night. The Rough Guide always had the most suggestions of any guidebook. In Apt it suggests “You can eat a cheap and extremely palatable four-course meal at Le Brémondy on place St-Pierre. We walked to that place, but there was no such place. Second choice was La Calèche, at 4 rue Cély, but there was no such address, just a parking lot across from the odd-numbered addresses. The next recommendation: “At the Auberge du Lubéron you can eat very well, with a superb choice of desserts.” Well, that was out, and the last choice, “pricey Argentinian specialties,” was not enticing. We began walking the streets, most of them deserted, because the shops had long since closed. One of Maryl's criteria for a place to eat is that there be a decent number of people eating. An empty restaurant, in France especially, indicates that something is lacking in the food; and also, it can be rather depressing to be the only diners. So we were happy when we came upon a place with reasonably priced plats du jour, including some appetizing fish courses. Happy, that is, until we went inside and discovered that there was absolutely no place to be seated. One large party took up at least sixty percent of the capacity of the small restaurant. Keep in mind that in France—perhaps in most of Europe—dinner is a leisurely affair. Once taken, a table may not be vacated in the course of a night. As we had learned in Athens, there are no waiting lists; and now that it was past 9:00—the usual time when we ate, as most of the French do—we would have to move on. Fortunately, we found another restaurant just across the square, this one specializing in Provençal specialties, such as daube de boeuf and cassoulet, and this one with several unoccupied tables. But no sooner had we stepped through the door than a woman said that she regretted that she could not seat us; all the tables were reserved. If ever again we find ourselves in Apt on a Saturday night, we will be sure to choose a restaurant and reserve a table in advance.

Finally, on a narrow lane called the rue du Septier we discovered that one quiet open doorway was the entrance to a restaurant, called the Restaurant du Sept. We could not even see tables, let alone patrons. But once we got the attention of a frenzied host, he led us down a curving flight of stairs to a cellar, where two other couples were seated at tables. It was a clean, well lighted cellar, but void of decoration. After seating us he ran back up the stairs, then a few minutes later shuffled back down with some plates, which he served at one of the other tables. This chap, it seemed, was the waiter as well. During the course of our meal, while taking our order, serving our three courses, and serving the dessert and coffee courses to the other tables, he ran up and shuffled down the stairs dozens of times. And, realizing that we hadn't seen any sign of a kitchen when we entered, we deduced that he must be going upstairs for the food. During his long absences we wondered if he might even be cooking the food. Before we left, Maryl jokingly questioned him about going up and down stairs all day, and he revealed that he was waiting on even more tables up another flight of stairs above the entrance. Several times we observed that waiters in France perform a lot of physical effort for their pay. But they don't seem to mind—the ones who served us were generally cheerful. The food was not memorable at the Restaurant du Sept, but the experience was.

And for the next two days, as we explored the environs of Apt, to the west and to the south, we made sure to stay out until sundown, then locate a restaurant in another town before returning to the Auberge du Lubéron for a night's rest.

The most scenic excursion from Apt was our drive one Sunday to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, less than an hour to the west and north via a narrow highway and curving country roads. The roads were quiet on that Sunday morning, but we were surprised to find the road into town crammed with cars and a for-fee parking lot on the edge of town nearly full. After one glance, though, it was not surprising that this picturesque village on the River Sorgue drew lots of visitors. Shops, tourist stands, cafes and restaurants crowd both banks of the broad green river. A few waterwheels, now immobile, rotted and crusted with moss, testify to the 400-year history of paper­making by the medieval method of pulping rags in water-powered mills. The force of the river has evidently been reliable, which is amazing, considering that its source is a fountain (for which the village is named), a mere mile upstream.

We walked the path to the source at a relaxed pace, mesmerized by the natural setting. Sunlight glistened off the ripples of the swiftly flowing water and shimmered on the leaves of several types of riverbank trees, whose new spring growth varied from dark green to vibrant yellow. Not far in the distance loomed gray limestone cliffs. When we rounded the last bend in the trail and came to the base of the sheer rock wall, I gazed upon a broad pool of water. One might have expected a mighty waterfall thundering from above, but there was no sound. The pool was placid, deep, and turquoise colored like the mineral pools of Wyoming's Yellowstone National Park. It was hard to fathom that powerful Sorgue River drained from this quiet pool, but we had left the evidence only a few steps behind. According to the guidebooks it is one of the most powerful natural springs in the world, with a flow of 3,500 - 7,000 cubic feet per second in the peak months. Even more amazing than the volume is the depth of the pool. Its depths were sounded only in recent years: by Jacques Cousteau, whose remote probe Télenaute reached 348 feet in 1967, and finally by a minisub, Modexa, which reached the bottom in 1985 at a depth of 1,010 feet.

It was here that the aforementioned Petrarch lived from 1337 to 1353, pining away for his beloved Laura. He had better things to say of this village than of Avignon: “Here I have the Fountain of the Sorgue, a stream that must be numbered among the fairest and coolest, remarkable for its crystal waters and its emerald channels. No other stream is like it; none other is so noted for its varying moods, now raging like a torrent, now quiet as a pool.”