The village is Cucuron and the square is called Place de l’Étang, situated around the Étang de Cucuron, the beautiful pond that lies at the heart of the village. The basin is an old man-made water basin, now the village’s most romantic stage. If something of the date-night scene seemed familiar, remember A Good Year, the Ridley Scott movie with Russell Crowe and Marion Cotillard? Yes, it was filmed right here. Their chemistry is palpable and she warns him: “I’m very, very suspicious; very, very irrational, and I have a very, very short temper.” He ignores all three warnings — how can you not in such a setting? The pond square is indeed one of the film’s locations.

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The real Cucuron IS the movie. Nothing needs to be arranged for the camera. And a little walk before dinner adds to the cinematography.

Cucuron is a proper old Provençal village, with medieval streets, ancient ramparts and the remains of the St Michel keep above it. The best way to experience it is to park outside the historic centre and simply disappear into the lanes for an hour, climbing towards the Donjon Saint-Michel for the view across the terracotta roofs and surrounding countryside. Then come back down towards the Étang before sunset.

For a date-night splurge, La Petite Maison de Cucuron is the obvious address. It is a Michelin-starred restaurant right on Place de l’Étang, where chef Éric Sapet builds his menus around seasonal market produce and Provençal ingredients.

For something less ceremonious, there are several restaurants directly around the Étang, including Bistrot La Relève, Ô Cailles and Le 20 Gourmet. Don’t overcomplicate things: just be there for the last hour of light, take a table under the plane trees, order anything that lasts as long as your candle burns on the table, and let the square do the rest.

Look into the water. Seriously. The reflection of the plane trees is the thing. From certain angles, you start serenely floating upside down.

And watch A Good Year before you go. Nothing like the strange pleasure of recognising a place while you’re standing inside it.

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Tonight, I won’t be having the Cena della Prova Generale in Siena, but I know what they’re having.

August 15, the day of the Assumption of the Virgin, is one of Italy’s favourite holidays. This time I am not in Tuscany - I will be there for the grape harvest instead, and transmitting live! :)

But I know what Siena does today.

Siena and the Palio

In mid-August, as entire Italy shows chiuso per ferie in the languor of Ferragosto, Siena has the Palio. Many have heard of the Palio, the bareback horse race taking place in one of the world’s most beautiful piazzas: Piazza del Campo. But to call it a horse race is superficial, and that is an understatement.

Siena’s magnificent, shell-shaped Piazza del Campo is the red-brick city lounge that has been the soul of the city for centuries. Here, the Torre del Mangia stands watch over daily life, aperitivo gatherings and everybody sitting directly on the luscious pavement of the piazza. But come August, the Campo prepares for war.

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To understand what Palio means to Siena, you must see it for yourself.

Days before the race, dump trucks unload tons of tufo-a golden-brown mixture of clay and earth - onto the stone perimeter of the Campo and level it carefully. Wooden mattresses are lashed to the ancient stone walls along the notorious Curva di San Martino, a lethal right-angle drop where jockeys frequently lose their footing. Around the track, carpenters erect the palchi: tiered wooden grandstands braced directly against the facades of medieval palazzi. Every inch of available space is used, right up to the private balconies overlooking the sand.

The city’s true nature lies in the contrade

The city’s true nature lies in the rivalries of its contrade, or city districts, whose vibrant banners hang from every window. The old city is thick with tension long before the jockeys mount; you can hear the rhythmic thunder of drums echoing off stone alleys, and feel the weight of centuries-old feuds held close to the chest.

Siena is divided into 17 contrade: historic districts with their own territories, symbols, colours, institutions and fiercely cultivated identities. They are much more than neighbourhoods. Each has its own church, museum, fountain and social organisation, and the contrada remains one of the deepest structures of Sienese identity.

17 remain today:Aquila (Eagle)Bruco (Caterpillar)Chiocciola (Snail) Civetta (Owl) Drago (Dragon) Giraffa (Giraffe) Istrice (Porcupine) Leocorno (Unicorn) Lupa (She-Wolf) Nicchio (Seashell) Oca (Goose) Onda (Wave) Pantera (Panther) Selva (Forest) Tartuca (Tortoise) Torre (Tower) Valdimontone (Valley of the Ram)

A Sienese can belong to a contrada by birth, family connection or, for others, by choice and lifelong participation. There is even a battesimo contradaiolo, a symbolic baptism performed with water from the district’s fountain.

This is why the old city feels timeless in Palio week. The banners aren’t party decoration they stand for territory, allegiance and memory. A fazzoletto around someone’s neck can tell you instantly where their heart lies.

About The Palio

The Palio is named after the Drappellone (a hand-painted silk banner awarded to the winner)and began as a formal medieval military display that evolved into bareback horse racing in the 1600s. Only 10 of the 17 contrade run in a race: the 7 that did not participate in the previous year’s race run automatically, joined by 3 drawn by lottery.

The horses are mostly Anglo-Arabo Sardo breed and their selection and trial period takes place over a strict four-day schedule prior to the race. On the morning of August 13 (the Tratta), around 30 candidate horses undergo preliminary heats so the best 10 evenly matched horses are selected for the race. They are then randomly assigned to the participating contrade via a public lottery, making this very much a race of luck.

Over the next three days, six trial races (prove) take place in Piazza del Campo: one in the morning at 9:00 AM and one in the evening around 7:15 PM. These trials allow the horses to adapt to the dangerous curves of the dirt track, let the hired jockeys test equipment and practice starts at the ropes (La Mossa), before the main race on August 16. Yes, you can by all means watch the trials and take advantage of the thinner crowds.

Ferragosto, August 15 sees the 4th Trial in the morning and the crucial 5th Trial (la Prova Generale) in the evening. But the real drama tonight happens after the horses leave the Campo.

What many don’t know is that all ten contrade that are running the race have a communal dinner tonight, known as the Cena della Prova Generale, and that is a night to remember. the whole historic center turns inside out revealing the best in the italian spirit: food, laughter, pride.

The Eve of Battle: Cena della Prova Generale

Ferragosto is the night of the Cena della Prova Generale.

Long before dusk, every kitchen in the district becomes a buzzing enterprise. This isn’t catered by commercial kitchens; it is a monumental, neighborhood-wide effort where nonne, uncles, and teenagers transform domestic kitchens into war rooms. Heavy copper pots bubble with slow-simmering meats, and oven doors slam continuously. In cramped medieval kitchens just meters from the alleyways, women balance massive steel pans of hot food, stepping out onto the cobblestones to carry steaming dishes directly to the long, paper-lined tables.

There’s nothing like Tuscan comfort food to feed an army before battle.

First come massive platters of Crostini Toscani, the warm liver pâté slicked over unsalted Tuscan bread, served alongside dark slices of Finocchiona and prosciutto. Then come the steaming hot courses: giant aluminum tubs of hand-rolled pici in rich, dark ragù di cinghiale - wild boar simmered for hours with red wine, juniper berries, and wild rosemary - or thick pappardelle in hare sauce.

For the main course, hot oval platters emerge from doorway after doorway loaded with Arista - roast pork loin spiked with garlic, rosemary, and fennel seeds. Alongside the meat, they pass steaming bowls of fagioli all’uccelletto (cannellini beans simmered in tomato, garlic, and sage) and roasted potatoes crisp from pork fat. Pitchers of young, bold Chianti flow like water, passed endlessly from hand to hand to wash down the heat of the food and the rising temper of the night.

To sit at the Cena della Prova Generale is to witness the beating pulse of Siena before the blood is shed. Hope and joy is still whole, victory is still possible, and for one evening on the eve of battle, the old city dines together in the open air—divided by bloodlines, bound by the promsed glory of the Campo.

This is not a dinner you book on OpenTable.If you want to sit at one, you can rarely buy your way in, you need a connection. You need to get into a contrada -ideally through a local friend, a Sienese host, or someone with a connection to a secific district who can invite you as their guest. You can also write or visit the contrada long before and formulate a request. The dinners can be enormous, with some contrade feeding well over a thousand people, but they remain celebrations of the contrada, not tourist events. Some local agents do include dinner in their Palio package, it’s worth checking out, you’d pay from 300 euro up for a privileged Palio seat in the palchi and the dinner on the eve of the race.

If you earn a seat at the table, you are one of the happy few: for a few hours you become part of the tribe. You are wearing their colors, which carry real weight. The silk fazzoletto tied over your shoulders is not a souvenir, is a sacred coat of arms. You must never wear the colors of a rival district in their territory. At the head of the long table sits the jockey- treated half like a deity , half like a marked man - surrounded by elders who remember victories from fifty years ago and infants in silk scarves.

Race Day: Chaos, Glory, and Thanksgiving

August 16 begins early.

There is the Messa del Fantino, celebrated in the morning before the final trial, the Provaccia. Then the jockeys are officially marked and cannot be replaced. Around three in the afternoon, inside each district’s chapel, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with contradaioli holding their breaths, a horse stands before the altar. Sunlight filters through stained glass onto glistening hides. The priest steps forward with holy water, and in the breathless silence, delivers the ultimate charge: “Va’, e torna vincitore!” (”Go, and return victorious!”). If the horse leaves a mess on the altar stone, the crowd gasps in joy! it is considered the ultimate sign of good fortune.

Then the historic procession takes over Siena. Drums, trumpets, banners, medieval costumes, horses and the Carroccio move through the city before entering Piazza del Campo. The Corteo Storico is scheduled to enter the Campo at 16:50 tomorrow, before the horses emerge at 19:00.

And then there is the race.

The actual race lasts barely ninety seconds, but it is an explosion of absolute, unrestrained chaos. At the drop of the starting rope (la mossa), ten bareback horses charge around the dirt track of Piazza del Campo, three treacherous clockwise laps where jockeys lash each other with ox-hide whips and fall at the lethal right-angle of the Curva di San Martino.

And here is one of the greatest facts about the Palio: the horse is centrestage. The jockey can fall and the horse can still continue the race and win.A riderless horse — the cavallo scosso — is allowed to cross the finish line first and bring victory to its contrada.

The race ends as violently as it begins. The winning horse crosses the line. The crowd supporting the victorious contrada surges onto the track to claim The Palio. And then Siena goes mad. The victors carry the banner to the Duomo to sing the Te Deum, the hymn of thanksgiving. Then the party begins: weeks of relentless, street-wide victory celebrations.

The parties thrown on August 16 belong to the victorious only. They are raw, emotional family affairs where every contradaiolo, from the oldest elder to the youngest child, gathers to feast. Outsiders are not allowed to this one.

That is the thing about Siena.

The Palio is not a ninety seconds horserace .

It is the four days of ritual. The centuries old rivalry. The banner hanging from the window. The child baptised into the contrada. The jockey sitting at the head of the dinner table tonight. The grandmother remembering a victory from fifty years ago. The drums in the alley. The horse standing before the altar tomorrow afternoon.

And tonight’s Ferragosto street feast.

If you feel nostalgic, drive north.

If you arrived later in July, drive north.

There is a chance you’ll still catch a blooming field around Sault.

An hour from the heart of the Luberon, the vineyards slowly give way to wheat fields, oak woods and open skies. Mont Ventoux starts showing up in your photos until, almost without noticing, you’ve climbed onto the Plateau d’Albion.

Travellers who did their research come here because the lavender blooms later, due to higher altitude. But that’s not the whole point. The point is that you simply have to come to Sault to see true lavender, because there’s a good chance you’ve only seen lavandin.

Sault is where Provence grows lavande fine, true lavender. Unlike lavandin, its younger hybrid cousin that colours the vast majority of Provence’s lower fields, true lavender only thrives at altitude. It produces less essential oil, is often harvested by hand and is the variety sought after by perfumers for its delicate, sweeter scent. It is rarer and therefore more expensive.

Sault is not a postcard village; it’s a genuine working village full of character and generations of knowledge built around lavender. If you’re there by lunchtime, Le Provençal has been feeding locals and travellers for decades with honest regional cooking, while La Table du Val de Sault is worth the short drive outside the village if you’re after a longer lunch.

Because the best part of Sault isn’t Sault.

Yes, it’s one of my favourite things: a scenic loop! :-)

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The Plateau d’Albion feels calm, vast and quiet. Lavender grows beside wheat, petit épeautre (small spelt) and sheep pastures, with Mont Ventoux always somewhere on the horizon, often still snow-capped well into early summer.

Some of the prettiest fields are between Sault and Aurel, where rows of lavender stretch towards the mountain, and north of Ferrassières, where old dry-stone bories stand surrounded by purple.

They are there as pure decorations for your photo op.

Kidding.

They were built by shepherds and farmers who cleared these limestone fields stone by stone, creating shelters from the very landscape they were cultivating.

One stop worth making: Aroma’Plantes is still a working organic farm and distillery. During the harvest you can watch the freshly cut lavender loaded into the stills before steam slowly separates the essential oil from the hydrolat. Of course you’ll leave with a bottle of oil, but I think the hydrolat is the better souvenir. Keep it in the fridge and use it on hot evenings, on your pillow or on freshly washed sheets. Provençal wisdom.

A few kilometres away, La Ferme aux Lavandes tells another part of the story. There are demonstration gardens showing different lavender varieties, old farming tools, aromatic plants, little fields of spelt and shaded picnic tables where nobody minds if you stay longer than planned. It’s less polished than some attractions in Provence, and all the better for it.

If you’re still in the area on 15 August, don’t cry over the late bloom; get ready for a rural fête. This is the harvest’s grand finale.

The Fête de la Lavande takes over the old village and the nearby meadow beneath the century-old oaks of the Hippodrome du Défends, about a fifteen-minute walk away, where hundreds of producers, artisans and growers gather for the day. Wander, sniff and taste everything from the hundreds of stalls: essential oils and hydrolats, lavender honey, nougat, herbal infusions, lavender keepsakes and delicate embroideries, soaps, cosmetics and bunches of lavender still tied exactly as they came from the fields. Yes, you’ve seen these all over the region, but here there’s a much better chance they’re made from lavande fine, not lavandin.

Then follow the sound of the tambourinaires into the Provençal parade, where flower-covered carts, old tractors and horse-drawn wagons roll through Sault before everybody goes back to the racecourse.

The moment everybody waits for is the French Lavender Sickle Championship. Professionals and amateurs line up in the fields with the traditional curved sickle, racing not simply to cut the most lavender in ten minutes, but to cut it beautifully, tie neat bundles and prove a timeless skill.

Afterwards, find a place under the oaks for the traditional repas champêtre. Plates of petit épeautre, local charcuterie, fresh goat’s cheese, and Provençal goodies are passed along communal tables while the happy scent of drying lavender hangs in the air. Laughter grows louder beneath the canopy as chilled rosé and beer flow. Long wooden benches creak under shared stories, crusty baguettes shatter under your fingers, - you eat with your fingers, ofc - creamy cheese with wild thyme, sun-ripened figs, and rich salted butter.

This is not your usual festival for visitors, it is a participation. You are being welcomed into the harvest celebration of an entire region, and there’s nothing more intimate than celebrating a hard earned crop.

And if I may say so, it's the perfect way to end the season.

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Back to my beloved Luberon after the Valensole trip, it’s time for even more colour.

Let’s go to Roussillon, right into ochre country. Here, the earth is red, orange, rust, yellow and burnt sienna. The houses exude the same colours. The cliffs are incandescent beneath the sun. Even the shadows look warm.

Roussillon is one of France’s officially designated Les Plus Beaux Villages de France - yes, there are quite a few of those in the region because everywhere is that beautiful . Its narrow streets climb and twist between ochre-coloured houses, little squares and stone staircases, eventually opening onto views of the Luberon.

But what makes Roussillon different from all the the other celebrated villages of the region is just how pink it is. Perfect for love.

Lady Sermonde was the wife of Lord Raymond d’Avignon. Her husband was strong and brave, but passion knows no wisdom. She fell desperately in love with Guillaume de Cabestan, a young knight at the castle. And of course, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I can bet you the entire Luberon they French-kissed a lot.

Raymond discovered the affair. He went wild with rage and hurt. He murdered Guillaume, cut out his heart and had it served to Sermonde at dinner.

Only after she had finished did she learn what she had eaten. Her lover’s heart.

The shock of losing votre objet de desir is devastating. Discovering that your husband knows everything is unbearable. But finding out you’ve just eaten your lover’s heart?

Impossible. Horrified, Sermonde fled to the cliffs and threw herself to her death. Legend says her blood stained the earth red, giving Roussillon its famous colour.

Geologists call it iron oxides. It’s the ochre.

The mineral is part of Roussillon’s DNA. The surrounding landscape is home to one of the world’s great ochre deposits, and the pigment once became an important local industry. The colours we admire today on the façades aren’t makeup. They are a reflection of the land itself.

The village doesn’t merely overlook a spectacular landscape, it is made of it.

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The Ochre Trail

The first thing to do in Roussillon is walk. The Sentier des Ocres begins almost in the heart of the village and descends into a miniature canyon.

The trail winds through former ochre quarries, where centuries of erosion and extraction have carved the earth into extraordinary shapes. There are two marked routes, taking roughly 30 and 50 minutes, although IRL you stop constantly to go wow, take photos and film.

Because the colours change as you move.

Yellow becomes orange.

Orange becomes red.

Red becomes purple in the shade.

The effect is strange. For moments, the landscape doesn’t look particularly French anymore. It feels closer to Arizona, Utah—or some imaginary Martian Provence. Except it’s better: there are pine trees. And cicadas. And the fragrant air of the Mediterranean.

The village

And somewhere above you, the medieval village is waiting, glowing in a romantic pink hue, with a romantic little table somewhere inside it. Tragedy and heartbreak are forgotten, romance is imbued in the scenery.

Come back up from the trail and spend some time getting lost in the village. How does it feel so elegant after all that orange dust?

Roussillon has medieval origins, remnants of its old fortifications, the Church of Saint-Michel and the remains of the castle above the village. It’s also a sequence of small discoveries: an arched passageway, a faded shutter, a staircase disappearing around a corner, a tiny square suddenly opening onto the valley.

There is something almost psychological about Roussillon’s colour. Here, colour is identity.

All you need to do is watch the light move across the walls - the brush changes with the light.

Morning is soft pink. Midday the cliffs turn violent orange. Late afternoon brings out the deeper reds. At sunset, the long shadows are burning across the ochre walls.

Roussillon is beautiful throughout the year, but it changes personality with the seasons. Most likely you’ll be here for the lavender season, and going from the purple of the field to the red palette of Rousillon is a surreal dream.But also in autumn and winter, the ochre looks incredible against a colder sky and seems to warm up the entire canyon.

When you eventually leave, you’ll take the colour with you. Like a painter’s palette, where you’ve mixed the perfect hue and, instead of washing it away, leave a little patch behind—a reminder that this exact colour exists, that it is possible, and that you can always find your way back to it.

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No, this is not a metaphor. Ever since my literature teacher declared, loudly and proudly, in front of the whole classroom that I had writing talent, I became known for my metaphors. But this is not one.

The scent of lavender in a field is something divine: a marriage of herbal sun, childhood happiness and holiday hums. Now that is a metaphor.

But when I parked near the distillery, the air was intoxicating. Not poetically. Literally. Warm, resinous and concentrated, too much.

Freshly cut lavandin was piled high outside, waiting to become essential oil. Tractors came and went. The famous fields I had driven all this way to see had already begun harvesting.

Instagram told everyone to come in late July. The guides told everyone to be there for the lavender festival, to find that perfect field where purple lavender meets golden sunflowers.

Except the plateau had moved on sooner. And the air was drunk with lavender vapour.

The Valensole Plateau is the Lavender Sea.

Most lavender postcards featuring those endless purple waves are born here: the vast fields of Maison Angelvin and Terraroma, the perfectly symmetrical rows rolling over gentle hills, the image that made Provence famous around the world.

But the Lavender Sea is changing. The bloom now comes earlier. So does the harvest. Farmers don't wait for the flowers to look their best; they harvest when the essential oil reaches its peak. In hot summers like this one, that moment can arrive weeks earlier than it did just a decade ago. Even I noticed the change over the past four years.

Valensole is the lavender icon and most visitors don't even realise they're looking at lavandin, not lavender. Bigger, bushier and yielding far more essential oil, lavandin is the crop that turned Valensole into the world's lavender capital. “True” lavender prefers the cooler slopes around Sault and Mont Ventoux.

Another change easily noticeable for those who come every season is the patching. Broad ribbons of wheat slice through the once immense, uninterrupted lavender fields. Sunflowers light up the hills. Olive groves, vines and chickpeas interrupt the endless rows.

This is the plateau adapting.

Years of drought, rising temperatures and lavender disease have forced farmers to rethink the landscape. Crop rotation restores the soil, reduces pests and ensures that one difficult harvest does not threaten their entire livelihood.

The famous Lavender Sea is becoming a mosaic. And somehow, it becomes if not more beautiful, then more meaningful. And more precious.

Most visitors come from Manosque and stop at Maison Angelvin, Terraroma and the village of Valensole. And it is beautiful. The classic photographs are there for a reason. Plus a grand maison’ shop is great for buying natural cosmetics and beautiful, fragrant decorations.

But you will never be alone in those fields. Not even on that perfect row. Nevermind, you say, I can always magically erase the other people photobombing my dream Provence photograph.

Or you could drive on for a more intimate loop.

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Take the languid detour towards Riez or Brunet. The Route de Puimoisson and the Route d’Oraison reveal some of the most beautiful landscapes in the area, with fewer crowds and endless surprises around every bend.

For me, this season’ highlights were a lavender hill just a whisper off the main road between Angelvin and Valensole, and a truly colossal expanse stretching beyond Valensole on the road towards Riez.

Along the way, small stone dovecotes still stand alone in the fields — once built to house pigeons whose droppings fertilized the soil. Riez is not on the map of musts, but is one of the oldest towns in Provence. It has four Roman columns from a first-century temple dedicated to Apollo, standing forgotten in a meadow, and a market that runs Wednesday and Saturday mornings the way it has for millenia.

Valensole holds its lavender festival every third Sunday of July. This year it fell on the 19th. By then the fields around the village were already stubble — cut days before the first stall even opened. That didn’t stop the local Lavandières band singing near the Grande Fontaine, and the eighty stalls selling all things lavender. The happiness it brings stays the same, only more aware of its own fragility and vital dependance on the wisdom of farmers. And a little luck with the weather.

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The little, unsung moments that make life beautiful.

When I started The Book of Happy, I simply set out to write down the small, beautiful things I was grateful for. Then I realized something even more beautiful: this is infinite. Every one of us experiences hundreds of tiny, fleeting moments of happiness that don’t get the recognition they deserve.

It isn’t my book anymore—it’s ours.

Add your happy little thing HERE, in the comments on the original post, and let’s keep writing The Book of Happy together.

As always, everyone who adds a moment will be immortalized in the Happy Gallery. ❤️

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if you put your foot down and take the D36 up the mountain, you can still find a purple patch higher up in the Plateau des Claparèdes. Here, rough limestone soil and coolertemps ellongate the life of the lavender for a few days. plus you can find yourself right into the postcard of a bories surronded by mauve field.

Back to the road that crosses the massif from Bonnieux to Lourmarin, a second detour is a true treasure vault. This is the local secret for when heat, - or the world -hits harder and you need a breathing cathedral. Look for the Forêt des Cèdres and step out of the blinding Provencal light into the cool, dark resin. In 1861, local foresters brought bags of Atlas cedar seeds from the Algerian mountains across the Mediterranean. They planted some here, into the bare, eroded limestone to hold the mountain together. Today, those trees form an immense green cathedral 700 meters over the valley, quiet and ancient, filtering the sun into long silver needles. Literally a gift from above.

Lavender melancholia is now erased by a different type of serenity. I drive to Lourmarin. The road itself is so beautiful, any time of the year. When I told you that Provence is an entire country, I meant it matter of fact. But in character, it is an entire continent with autonomous regions, united by the fil rouge of a certain douceur de vivre and discreet grace. When you come from the sea, the Luberon feels intimate. When you drive from northern villages perches, the southern slopes feel relaxed and liberal. The hilly villages were built for defence. Lourmarin was built for living. Surrounded by lush vineyards and olive groves, it exudes grace more than prettiness. Camus and Henri Bosco both chose this realm for their final rest, and you feel that I -made- my- peace- with-the- world sentiment in the air.

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What sticks to my mind is its Renaissance château. It stays with you like a painting. The first Renaissance château ever built in Provence, and it doesn’t dominate the village. It no longer needs to defend it, but to host weddings and summer fêtes. It feels like a house not like a castle.

The narrow, cobbled streets hum lazily. Elderly gentlemen argue over pastis outside the cafés and surely they’ve been having the same conversation for forty years, ever since they were not elderly but equally invested in commenting the life after work. A bookseller arranges paperbacks on an outside table as if the place were a café and not a bookshop. A dog sleeps on an alley where everyone needs to pass, and they don’t shoo it away.

For lunch or dinner, some foods are inseparable from these places. Courgette flowers, Little purple Provençal artichokes if they're on the menu. Ventoux lamb scented with wild thyme, my favourite in any season. A bottle of local rosé cold enough to mist the glass. Lourmarin happens to be one of the Luberon's wine villages. If you have time for tasting at the estate, stop at Château de la Canorgue on the road to Bonnieux;They were among the pioneers of organic viticulture in the region long before it became fashionable. Château Fontvert, a short walk from the village centre, produces some of my favourite whites in the Luberon (and I’m not a white wine person): Rolle and Grenache Blanc with that unmistakable mineral freshness that tastes of limestone and summer. Et voila! It’s Rennaissance all over again.

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Bonnieux for deux

Bonnieux catches the afternoon light. All of it. The village climbs the hillside in warm shades of ochre, its shutters closed against the heat. Behind old wooden doors and shutters and stone walls are gardens, ateliers, family homes and some of the Luberon's finest tables, including Capelongue and its Michelin-starred La Bastide. Bonnieux is one of Provence's famous, most fashionable villages, yet it carries itself with noble discretion.

The marché has already packed up, but the place still smells of peaches, goat's cheese and warm bread. A forgotten chalkboard leans against a wall advertising cherries that were probably sold out before noon. Somewhere, plates clink behind a garden wall that hides an entire courtyard.

There are two churches, the new and the Vieille Église. They tell the village story together. The Église Neuve sits in the lower Bonnieux and remains the centre of local life, hosting Sunday Mass and community celebrations. Built between 1866 and 1870, it was a true village project, financed through a subscription by the inhabitants who wanted a church closer to daily life and easier to reach.

The Vieille Église is at the very top. You reach it by following narrow stone lanes and staircases that gradually leave the cafés behind. Dating back to the 12th century, the old church overlooks the entire Calavon valley. The former cemetery has become a peaceful garden, and fragments of the medieval ramparts still remain. Bonnieux belonged to the Papal States, was always a prosperous corner of Provence and could always rely on history, power and privileges. The view, like all Bonnieux views, offers the whole Provence postcard.

Lacoste and its sadism

Across the valley, Lacoste catches the light differently. The limestone is almost white, the streets noticeably steeper. Every lane leads towards the château of the Marquis de Sade, where libertine fantasies, cruelty and shocking literature helped give the world the word sadism.

The château now tells another story. Pierre Cardin restored the ruins and transformed them into a stage for theatre, music and fashion, while the studios of SCAD brought artists, architects and filmmakers into medieval houses. Students carrying sketchbooks and laptops pass beneath walls that once belonged to Sade's estate, an unlikely marriage that feels unforced here. The cruelty of fashion can be equally lasting.

Down in the valley, summer is already moving on. Much of the lavandin along the D149 is being harvested earlier than usual after weeks of intense heat. The familiar purple has turned a little greyish as it awaits collection. Sometimes you see a half-harvested field: half sensual purple, half pale green fresh haircut, drying in the sun.

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The road climbs out of the lavender valley and, a few bends later, the village appears, rising from the rock. Built entirely from the pale local limestone, Gordes changes colour with the light: cold honey at sunrise, almost white under the midday sun, then amber before dusk. Gordes is mentioned in all the guides and belongs to Les Plus Beaux Villages de France, the association that brings together the country’s most beautiful villages. It is the typical Provençal village perché.

Most people know Gordes from the viewpoint on the road into the village. The panorama is superb, but Gordes is serious about discovery.

Its steep calades - those narrow cobbled lanes polished dangerously smooth by centuries of footsteps - climb between stone houses, shaded passages and tiny squares towards the old ramparts. Lots of linen boutiques, ceramic ateliers and olive-wood workshops: Gordes still feels like a village of artisans rather than souvenir shops.

All roads seem to lead back to the little roundabout beneath the Renaissance château, rebuilt in 1525 on medieval foundations and now home to exhibitions throughout the year. This is the beating heart of the village.

But don’t just walk all over the polished pavement like everybody else. There is more to see underneath.

The Caves du Palais Saint-Firmin take you through the hidden Gordes: olive presses, rainwater cisterns, grain silos, wine cellars and workshops carved directly into the limestone beneath the village. These are not museum exhibits, but actual corridors and underground treasures. You take a walk back to the Gordes that existed long before postcards, revealing how the village survived on a hill where every drop of water, every olive and every handful of grain mattered.

Time for lunch? keep it Provençal. A chilled rosé. Tapenade. Fresh bread. Local goat’s cheese. Tomatoes with a sprinkle of olive oil. If Banon is on the menu, don’t hesitate. Wrapped in chestnut leaves and matured until creamy, it is one of Provence’s great cheeses and carries the name of the nearby village where it was born.

For dinner, La Trinquette is literally hanging in there - on the walls, with a terrace over the valley. Down in the giratoire, La Bastide de Pierres, the lively Italian terrace facing the château, is tested and retested by generations of locals and visitors alike. I told you earlier about the baba au rum that comes with its own bottle of rum, but the pizza and everything else is simple and delicious.

The beauty of Gordes isn’t that it is perfect. It really isn’t: it’s too much on the trodden path in summer, and if you actually stay here and have to walk those slippery calades after the rain with a basket of groceries in your hand - it’s a challenge. Its beauty is that it’s deeper than the postcard and manages to stay true to itself and out of the cliche.

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You should know me by now: most of my trips I plan around moments rather than destinations. A specific time of the year brings out the best in people and places. An event can be worth crossing oceans for. The right sunset can make all the difference.

Now we need to plan around something that lasts barely two minutes.

On 12 August 2026, a total solar eclipse will cross Europe. For those standing inside the path of totality, the magic will be complete. The temperature will fall, birds may go quiet, and the Sun’s ethereal corona—normally invisible in daylight—will suddenly appear around the Moon.

I remember the eclipse of 1999. Hundreds of us kids and our respective parents spent the day picnicking at the hippodrome, waiting to see whether the werewolf would really swallow the midday Sun. The fact that we all had to wear those funny eclipse glasses only added to the excitement. We looked as though we had all dressed up for the same party.

This eclipse will be different in one critical way: It happens close to sunset.

That means choosing where to watch it is essential, and it all comes down to microlocation.

The path of totality crosses Greenland, Iceland, northern Spain, a small patch of northern Portugal and the Balearic Islands, including Mallorca.

Oooh, the places along the path are fantastic. You have western Iceland, Santiago de Compostela, A Coruña, the Galician coast, Asturias and Mallorca. You could happily build an entire holiday around any of them. This is what most guides do. They follow the eclipse map and recommend the jewels that happen to lie beneath it. Most guides are made with AI, and lack the real life pov, of course.

I’ve been to many of these places, and I also have a surfer’s eye for the ocean. Many of the most beautiful west facing beaches being considered are tide-regulated and hazey at sunset. I have to tell you that the most famous, picture perfect places luckily found in the path of totality will not give you the eclipse view. Because this is a sunset eclipse, the Sun will be only a few degrees above the western horizon when totality begins. That changes everything.

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A charming medieval square will fail. A rooftop will fail. A mountain ridge will fail. A romantic medieval skyline will have the church spire swallow the Sun before the Moon does.

We don’t just look for the pretty spot facing west within the path of totality. We need to look for the horizon.

What we need is an unobstructed western or west-northwestern view: an Atlantic beach, a sea-facing cape, an exposed cliff, an island viewpoint or an open plateau where nothing stands between you and the setting Sun.

Me against the guides

The absolute best places you will find in totality that everbody highlights will fall short:

Western Iceland promises one of the world's most dramatic eclipses, but it's also the riskiest. The Westfjords and Snæfellsnes lie in the path of totality, yet Iceland's famously unpredictable cloud cover makes it a far less reliable bet than northern Spain.

Mallorca’s Cape Formentor - I just wrote about it being one of the best cliffroads in Europe - is closed for car traffic in August and there are only two viewpoints that are actually well exposed for this (El Colomer and the left terrace of the lighthouse) that will be packed and painful to reach by the local shuttle provided.

Playa de las Catedrales, easily one of the most impressive beaches in Europe, will be CLOSED for the day by order of the local council, fearing crowds’safety.

Santiago de Compostela would be a dream to match the camino with the eclipse, but the city skyline will not show the right amount of horizon.

These are the places I identified so far:

• Vixía da Herbeira (Serra da Capelada, Galicia) - among Europe’s highest sea cliffs, with a vast Atlantic horizon.

• Cabo Ortegal (Galicia) - an exposed cape looking straight into the Atlantic.

• Praia de Alba e Sabón (near A Coruña) - a long open beach with an uninterrupted view towards the setting Sun.

• Praia de Llas or Punta Roncadoira (A Mariña, Lugo) - the closest alternative to Cathedrals beach

• Mallorca’s northwest coast - Banyalbufar, anchored by the old watchtower at Torre del Verger, or Sant Elm’s islet of Sa Dragonera. For anyone who wants to remove land from the equation entirely, boat operators are running eclipse cruises off the southwest coast for an open 360-degree horizon at sea.

  

If you’re not in totality path, don’t dismiss the eclipse entirely - it’s an almost surreal feeling and one so, so rare. Some of Europe’s finest destinations will still show an exceptionally deep partial eclipse, and these are my choices:

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• Foz do Douro (Porto, Portugal) - this is Porto’s single ocean facing district, the closest true coastline to Portugal’s one sliver of totality, which is actually landlocked, in the mountains of Montesinho near Bragança, nowhere near the sea.

  

• The Basque coast (Hendaye, Biarritz, Saint-Jean-de-Luz) - France’s best seat for this eclipse, facing the open Atlantic dead west, with obscuration near 99.5%, as close to totality as the country gets.

• Pointe de la Parata (Ajaccio, Corsica) - looking straight at the Îles Sanguinaires, and not a guess: it’s the local astronomy club’s official public viewing site, with the eclipse reaching its maximum at nearly 97% right as the Sun meets the water.

• Capo Caccia, Alghero (Sardinia) — one of the luckiest spots in all of Italy, close to 96%, thanks entirely to how far west it sits. I will probably choose this one.

  

• Turin - the Sun will only be four to six degrees up at maximum, low enough that the Alps themselves can get in the way, so height matters here more than almost anywhere else on this list. The rooftop terrace of the Intesa Sanpaolo tower has a 360-degree view over the city and the mountains. This occured to me because it’s one of my favourite places in Turin and last year I was at a sunset party there, but a big city skyline is always hazy and the Alps may blur the horizon.

• Genoa - the Righi funicular carries you up above the rooftops to a Ligurian Sea horizon with nothing in the way, at close to 91-92%. There is a cap on funicular capacity though.

Talk about being in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment. This eclipse escape is depending on that.

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This is a white abbey in a purple field.

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A 12th-century abbey, perfectly framed by rows of lavender, tucked into a secluded valley where the surrounding hills cradle the silence. Even the road to it feels like initiation.

Yes, you should go into the postcard. And yet, the postcard is only half the story.

Most visitors do the photo session and leave. As always, I say: thank God for that.

Because Sénanque isn’t a monument. It goes against its very purpose to be an attraction. It is a living Cistercian monastery, founded in 1148 and still inhabited by a small community of monks who have never stopped doing what their order ordered them to do: pray, work and preserve silence.

The lavender isn’t there for our reel. The monks cultivate it as part of the Benedictine principle ora et labora ("pray and work"). The monastery has depended on agriculture for centuries, and today lavender is one of the ways the community supports itself, distilling essential oil and selling their hadnmade products.

The monks still gather seven times a day in the Romanesque church, following the Rule of Saint Benedict, while outside thousands of visitors quietly chase the same postcard.

That contrast fascinates me. The crowds outside, loud and playful and rushed, directing the perfect photo and fitting all the kids in a snapshot. The vlogger livestreaming. The girl in the sexy white linen dress who doesn't even realise she's standing in a churchyard.

and then if you go inside, the silence.

Beyond the famous façade lies an entirely different world: the cloister, where all corridors lead; the chapter house, where the community has gathered for centuries; the medieval dormitory, where the monks once slept side by side, fully clothed, on straw beds ready to rise before dawn, descending the Night Staircase directly inside the church; and the warming room, the only room they heated in the abbey.

The architecture is radical in its simplicity. No gilded ceilings. No frescoes. No distractions. The Cistercians believe beauty should come from proportion, light and silence rather than ornament. Once you know that, you begin to notice every shaft of sunlight crossing the pale stone.

If your visit happens to coincide with one of the daily offices, step into the church. Put the camera away. Listen. For a few minutes, eight centuries chant with you.

Very few people know you can even stay here. Not as you would in a hotel, but as a retreat guest.

You can write to the Brother Hotelier, who welcomes those seeking a few days of monastic hospitality. You get a simple room. You eat in silence in the refectory, sometimes together with the monks. You’re invited to join the monks in prayer, though it’s never mandatory, and encouraged to leave the outside world beyond the abbey walls. That isn’t mandatory either, but it comes naturally.

What they do insist on is this: don’t treat Sénanque as a hotel. Your car stays parked. You don’t get to spend the day visiting Gordes or Ferrassières before coming back to sleep. That’s not how it works.

For a day or two, you discover how an entire world can fit inside a valley. And how much peace you had forgotten you needed.

And when you leave, you feel like you are the holder of a secret.

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Next stop: Gordes, the balcony of Luberon.

Blue shutters left half open. Medieval hilltop villages. Lavender fields rolling towards the horizon. Vineyards and cypress trees. A wicker basket at the market, filled with tomatoes and fragrant herbs. The romance of an iced rosé. The effortless douceur de vivre.

You may not know it yet, but you’re dreaming of the Luberon.

The Luberon is the very heart of Provence, wrapped around the ancient, verdant Luberon Massif and protected as the Luberon Regional Natural Park. It’s an easy hour’s drive from Marseille airport and even closer to Aix-en-Provence. This is where lavender grows alongside vineyards, cherry orchards, olive groves and some of France’s most beautiful hilltop villages, all woven together by winding country roads that seem reserved for the happy few.

And right now is precisely when I wanted to bring you here.

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Lavender is now in bloom across much of the Luberon, while harvest is beginning in some of the lower, warmer fields as early as this weekend, because of the extreme heat of past weeks. Provence only wears this shade of purple for less than two months before the landscape slowly begins to change again.

And tell me, in your dreams, how does Provence smell?

For me, it’s lavender warmed by the sun, the resinous scent of cypress, wild thyme and rosemary, ripe figs, vineyards after a summer shower, and the faint sweetness of stone baking in the afternoon heat. This is the perfume of a Provençal summer.

And in your dreams, what does it sound like?

For me, it’s the familiar chorus of cicadas, the clinking of glasses on a shaded terrace and the distant church bells marking another lazy afternoon.

Don’t look too astonished when I tell you this, but the Luberon is, for me, the most beautiful corner of France. Perhaps because it possesses the one quality that defines beauty above all others: intimacy.

Timeless as it is, the Luberon has preserved its villages perchés almost intact, while somehow casting an invisibility cloak over its greatest treasures, keeping them just beyond the reach of the madding crowd. What continues to perplex me is the feeling of privacy and effortless elegance. How can so much beauty coexist with so much silence?

And speaking of silence, before we drive through the lavender fields, before we wander the villages perchés, before we make love in a Provençal gîte, let's begin with a monastic postcard.

Next stop: Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénanque.

Yes, Europe is that beautiful. That old. That magical. The film scores and Instagram reels are genuine. The Tuscan sun is exactly that glowy, the cypress trees really do align like that on nameless fields, concerts are held in 2,000-year-old arenas, 1,000-year-old castles are banal, and people walk on streets laid down by the Romans. All of that is true. And your expectation is a cinematic experience, a sequence of highlights, carried out according to the efficient schedule you made at home in order to fit in all the essentials. Because Europe is small, isn’t it? And then you land, and the gap appears.

I live in that gap for a living, in a sense. I watch it open up on trains, in restaurants, in the manual drive of a local car too small for the itinerary in your head, in the messages I get from readers mid-trip asking why nobody warned them about this or that. I have a childhood best friend who moved to the US with his parents and now he tries to come back a few times per year, maybe for good. I worked in hospitality and aviation long enough to see the gap between preconception and misconception, and in travel advertising long enough to witness both disappointment and glorification. All of it is true and none of it is real life.

There are, as usual, two sides of the story. Think of this as the download from the friend who already lives here, the one you call before you book anything.

From your side

The Mirage

The Europe of the American imagination is curated. It is the café table with nobody rushing you off it, the coastline that looks like the setting for a fashion ad, the stranger who turns out to be the love interest. It is real, in fragments. The problem is the fragments get stitched into a single continuous feeling, and you arrive expecting the feeling to be ambient, everywhere, all the time, whether you’re in a Provençal village, a side street in Vienna, or a Lisbon tram.

What actually happens: you get the golden hour on day one, a shabby bathroom with two separate faucets on day two, and a rude waiter on day three, and the whiplash in between feels like a glitch in the postcard.

The Allure That’s Still Real

Like in love, moving in together reveals the faults. Don’t mistake that for the absence of love. Europe is true love, even if for some it stays the one who got away. You can eat lunch where a famous poet wrote, sleep where a Renaissance painter lived, buy fish where the Argonauts anchored. Towns built for walking, not driving. UNESCO landscapes designed for beauty by a pope, palaces and basilicas envisioned by a king who wanted his capital to outlive his bloodline. That part of the allure holds up. It is the part worth crossing an ocean for.

Tropes, and Why You Trip on Them

“Everyone is so rude.” Usually it is not rudeness. It is the absence of the grin, of retail-scripted warmth. A French shopkeeper who does not perform delight in your presence is not hostile. A Berlin waiter who does not smile constantly may still take real care of your table. They are French, or German, and working.

“Why is everything closed.”Sunday closures, August closures, two weeks in January closures, the two-to-three-hour siesta across the Mediterranean, a whole month of national holiday in some corners of the continent. This is not inefficiency. It is a different relationship to time, one where you don’t get to eat every hour of the day. You think closed shutters are broken systems. We think a six-day-a-week nine-to-five is a waste of life.

“I can’t believe how small everything is.” Small cars, small apartments, small portions, small elevators, a Fiat that fits into a parking spot the size of an American truck’s shadow. This is what happens when land, energy, and history are expensive and cherished. It is not deprivation. It is design under different constraints, and even more, it is valuing the old and the beauty of tradition over the new and the convenient.

“Quaint means behind.” The reflex to regard cobblestones as charming but backward. Then the train leaves on the minute, the high-speed line crosses the Alps and two countries before dinner, a hospital visit doesn’t end in a bill that is twice the scare, and the quaintness turns out to be sitting on top of infrastructure that in several respects works better than the one you left at home. Old and outdated are not the same word here.

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American infrastructure is built around the car, around abundance, around convenience as the default good. European infrastructure is built around density, history, and constraint. Neither is wrong. We are accommodating different values.

The Checklist Instinct

Before the suitcase, there is the itinerary. I have seen it a hundred times: eleven cities in nine days, a spreadsheet with color-coded rows, a Google Doc titled “EUROPE TRIP FINAL FINAL.” The planning is not the problem, just don’t rely on a blogger named Chuck who crossed the pond once. The problem is what the planning assumes: that Europe is an overwhelming checklist of musts that needs a masterful approach to be tamed. Line up early, hit the landmarks, match the corresponding experience you found on GetYourGuide, hire a private chauffeur so you never have to worry about the how. Then move to the next city and check into your next hotel.

That approach is legit. American cities, for the most part, were built in the last two hundred years, on a grid, for efficiency. Old Europe with towns that started as a fortress with a church on top of a hill smiles at that method, while the traveler catalogues the place as difficult.

Here is the part that is hard to say without sounding condescending: the lack of subtlety in the American approach to Europe is simply a different perspective on time. A street in Seville has been a street for longer than the United States has existed as a country. The names of your own cities and mountains were imported from here by the settlers: Sierra Nevada, Paris, New York, New Orleans, Cambridge. That is not a fun fact. It is a different unit of lifetime entirely, and nothing in an American life prepares you for it. Only standing on that street, or in that original town of York, makes you understand.

So stop looking at your screen and your GPS and start seeing the life around you: it is built for a rhythm you are only mimicking, not one you get to override. Density, in Europe, is not inconvenience. It is people choosing to live close together, on foot, around a market, a fountain, a church.

From our side

We are not judging, Not the way American anxiety assumes. We are not acting like snobs because we look down on you. We are snobs by nature because this is where Western civilization and art comes from, and we have four millennia imprinted in our DNA. But that verdict sits on top of a whole set of tropes of our own, ones we rarely say out loud.

The distance trope. For us, Paris for an anniversary, Milan for a night at La Scala, or Amsterdam for tulips can be a spontaneous escape. For you, the same trip is a year of saving, a two-week window, a once-in-a-lifetime frame with lots of gravity instead of an inspired going out. We don’t always register how much weight that puts on a single week, because we take for granted the luxury of proximity.

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The oversharing trope. A European will tell a stranger almost nothing. An American will tell a stranger about their divorce by the second glass of wine. We find this simultaneously endearing and slightly alarming, evidence of a culture where therapy-speak has become the default register for small talk, where personal information is readily offered rather than something, well, personal.

The food culture trope. Loud enthusiasm about a mediocre bowl of pasta, tipping too much, ordering a burger and fries at a tavern that prides itself on the catch of the day, knowing nothing about wine, or worse, pretending you know lots about wine. Our food culture is built on ritual, and a meal is often an event worth planning a day around. We are stingier with our enthusiasm, but deeply appreciative of talent and specificity.

The bigger-is-better trope. The instinct toward the supersized version of everything, the largest car that will fit in the lane, the walk-in closet, the drink that comes in a size we don’t have a word for. We tend to prize the well-made small thing over the impressive large one, and we’re impressed by the minute detail instead.

The blank slate on history trope. Not knowing which age a castle comes from, or assuming everything “ancient” is from 1750, is expected and mostly forgiven, since your country’s relationship to time is genuinely shorter. What lands worse is not the gap in knowledge, it’s the nonchalance, the assumption that a place’s history is trivia when in fact is genius loci.

The volume-of-language trope, not the volume of voice. “Best meal of my life” about a good steak, “incredible” about a decent view. American vocabulary runs hot by default, and it takes us a while to calibrate what’s genuine delight versus simply the register everyone speaks in. Once we do, we usually envy the enthusiasm a little.

The Americans trope There’s an irony in all of this. We are not called “European,” we are keen to be identified by our nationality, and we’re right to insist on it. A Portuguese and an Austrian likely have less in common than a Vermonter and a Texan. But even after Hernry James, we do the same thing back without noticing the contradiction: fifty states collapsed into one word, “American.” Most of us couldn’t place Nebraska on a map. But then again, we never intend to visit either.

The Small Things Tell The Story

The landmarks are not where the gap is widest. It’s widest in the ordinary hours.

The Shared Living Room. Americans tend to view public spaces strictly as transit zones and the private home as the setting where life happens. In Europe, the piazza, praça, or place functions as a shared communal living room. Because apartments are historically small, life is intentionally lived out in the open. Existing on a public bench for hours isn't loitering; it is a fundamental civic right. Gathering with no call-to-action in the village square is socializing.

Coffee. An Italian espresso is drunk standing at the bar in under two minutes, not carried around all morning in a paper cup. Order a cappuccino after 11 a.m. in Rome and you’ll get one, but you’ll also be quietly filed under tourist. In Vienna it’s the opposite: a whole afternoon with a newspaper on a wooden stick. The café scene is cultural, not caffeinal.

Clothes. We dress for the version of ourselves that might run into a neighbor, real shoes for a trip to the bakery. Athleisure as a daily uniform reads, to most of the continent, as pajamas that escaped the house. Tropical printed shorts are screaming poolside, nowhere else. High heels on cobblestone, uuups.

Family. In Italy, Portugal, Spain, and much of Eastern Europe, Sunday lunch with three generations at one table is the baseline, not Thanksgiving. Adult children moving back home doesn’t carry the American stigma of failure to launch. Family is treated as infrastructure, not an emergency fallback.

Driving. Manual transmission is still the default, not a retro choice. Roundabouts instead of four-way stops. Italians have a reputation for chaos behind the wheel that is half-earned and half-myth. Mostly, they’re simply better drivers, because they need to be.

After work. Aperitivo in Italy, the passeggiata, the bench at the gate in Romania to chat up the neighbors, the Spanish tapas bar, the French 5 à 7. Nordic countries close the laptop at five and mean it. It’s a harder boundary between job and life than most American calendars allow.

Relation to the job. France legally requires a right to disconnect, employers have to negotiate real limits on after-hours email rather than leave it to goodwill. Job title carries less identity weight here than at an American dinner party, where “what do you do” is often the first question. Here it’s frequently one of the last.

Mythbusting

Myth: You need to whisper and dress in taupe to not be spotted as American. You will be spotted regardless, and mostly nobody cares. What actually marks you is not volume or sneakers. Italians are louder than you and we all wear Converse. It is not knowing the rhythm: greeting before asking, please and thank you doing real social work, patience with a process that will not be rushed for you.

Myth: Europe is one culture with different flags. The difference between a Sicilian fish market and a Zurich train station, or an Andalusian town where corrida still happens and a Bucharest apartment block, is astronomical. Treating “Europe” as a single cultural unit is the surest way to misread every place you land in.

Myth: Everyone speaks English, so you don’t need a word of the local language. Often true in the tourist center of a city, and beside the point everywhere else. Assuming English as the default is entitlement, while the two or three words you do learn go a long way. The best restaurants, the ones worth it, often have no English menu. Unless you’re in the UK, of course.

Myth: A smaller apartment or a slower career means a smaller life. Plenty of Europeans could earn more working American hours in an American system and choose not to, because the trade being offered, more time against more money, isn’t a good deal here. That’s not a lack of ambition. It’s a different definition of a life well spent.

What Actually Helps

Learn the greeting first, before the menu vocabulary. A “bonjour” or “buongiorno” before your request changes the entire rapport.

Expect hardship: heat, steep streets, a lack of parking, many of the interesting places reachable only on foot or by public transport.

Expect the tourist traps. Between all the aforementioned snobbery, the first layer of any place is a welcoming collection of stereotypes we know you’ll fall for. Life is not there.

Expect the closures. Build the trip around them instead. Slow the pace on purpose, get unstuck from your schedule, and get lost. Search for places where local life happens, take a look inside a manufacturer’s atelier, don’t presume that all that is expensive is good, or that all that is cheap isn’t.

The Gap Closes

The mirage fades fast. What replaces it, if you stay long enough or come back enough times, is something better and less photogenic: a real place to live in, with real friction, that rewards attention instead of expectation. The allure should never be about the postcard, but about what the postcard couldn’t show you: your butter is made with hand-picked fleur de sel, the shutters are closed because someone is making love or taking a nap between shifts, the car is small because it goes on that street you thought was a pedestrian alley.

I did not learn any of this from a guidebook, and I will never write a generic one. I learned it by living here, first in a place that is more of a time machine than any other in Europe, post-communist Romania, then in Italy, the country that holds an outsized share of the world’s art, then on the seaside of Europe, Portugal, and now in one of the last aristocratic enclaves, the south of France. I love to be surprised and immersed in the peculiarities and small rituals of a place before pretending I get it. It is only when you are local enough to know a place in low season, and to be greeted by the butcher, that you can give real welcome.

One takeaway

If I were to pick one piece of wisdom to share before my American friends come for the first time, it would be this: Europe is infinite. It is not a huge museum to skip the line for, to dedicate a summer to, and be done with. It is a demigod, alive, forever feeding on the poetry of its islands and hamlets and the Stendhal-syndrome perfection of its art.

With love, from Europe.

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It was a perfect afternoon in Tuscany when, like on any other perfect afternoon, the Chianti hills rolled with vineyards and graceful cypress trees guarded the village roads. All of it was living art. The air resonated with an equally perfect buzz.

I thought they were crickets.

"They're cicadas," my friend Teresella said.

You know cicadas by their sound long before you ever see one. Or you may not recognize one even if you do.

The cicada is among the loudest insects in the world. But among cicadas, only the male sings. His song serves several purposes: it can warn of danger, repel rival males and, above all, attract females during the breeding season.

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Unlike crickets, cicadas don't make their sound by rubbing their wings together. They sing using a pair of tiny ribbed membranes on the sides of their abdomen, called tymbals. Powerful muscles buckle these membranes in and out hundreds of times per second, producing the unmistakable buzzing chorus that can exceed 100 decibels in some species.

Yet the loudest part of a cicada's life is also the shortest.

After mating, the female lays her eggs in slits cut into tree branches. When the eggs hatch, the tiny nymphs fall to the ground, burrow into the soil and begin a life almost entirely hidden from us. There they feed on sap drawn from tree roots, growing slowly underground for years. Depending on the species, this hidden life can last anywhere from two to five years, while some North American cicadas remain underground for 13 or even 17 years.

Then, usually on a warm summer night, they emerge.

The nymph climbs a tree, a wall or a fence post. Its skin splits open and the adult cicada slowly breaks free, unfolding soft wings that harden by morning. Within days, the males begin singing. They have only a few weeks to live—just long enough to find a mate, reproduce and begin the cycle again.

It's an extraordinary contrast: years spent underground in silence, followed by a few brilliant weeks spent filling the air with sound looking for love.

Perhaps that's why a Mediterranean summer doesn't feel complete without them. You can photograph the same olive grove, the same pine forest, the same medieval village. But switch off the cicadas and something essential disappears. Their song is more than background noise. It is part of the landscape itself—an invisible frequency that tells your brain the heat is real, the afternoon is at its peak and summer has truly arrived.

For me, the soundtrack of summer isn't made by the sea or the wind.

It's made by an insect that spends most of its life hidden beneath our feet, only to emerge for a brief, deafening celebration of being alive and in love.

Let's be loud.

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You know Cannes before you arrive. It's pronounced Cannes like khan, not like I can, and you can stick to what you've built up in your head about it and be done with it.

You've known it for years, probably decades, from the red carpet, the Palme d'Or, and photographs of cinema darlings climbing the Palais steps in gowns that make headlines. That foreknowledge creates a preconceived experience. It lands you at the train station with an idea of the place, and more often than not you remain stuck with it.

It took me longer for Cannes to become a town I really enjoyed. And I needed winter for that.

The Boulevard de la Croisette is the hit: 2.3 kilometres of palm trees, private beach clubs, the Majestic, the Carlton, the Martinez, exactly like the picture you've already formed. In May, during the Festival, they become the theatrical stage of the global image industry. In July and August, a different audience arrives: the need-to-be-seen beach crowd. The clubs in front of the grand hotels, parasols aligned by a mathematician, rosé arriving before you've finished asking, are beautiful to spend that glamour Riviera morning in. They're also expensive, but still within reach.

The rest of the year, the Croisette is simply a promenade. After seeing more of the coast, I realised it isn't even the most beautiful stretch or the best view. It's remarkable how quickly the illusion clears once you're out of the fish bowl.

The fish bowl has better exits than most visitors use.

Walk east to the end of the Croisette and everything changes register. Pointe Croisette has sandy beaches on both sides and quiet, leafy streets where people live year-round. On the western side there's a small public beach the tourist circuit mostly ignores: clean sand, clear water, and a direct view of the islands. Bring a picnic. The boules court at Place de l'Étang is a local fixture, and so is the large free car park where the younger crowd gathers with skateboards and portable speakers.

Walk along the Vieux-Port past the yachts and you'll reach the ferries for the Lérins Islands. The islands are visible from almost everywhere in Cannes like they’re part of the décor, which means everyone photographs them and postpones the visit.

Don't. There's a good chance they'll become your favourite reel of Cannes.

Sainte-Marguerite is the larger island: pine forests, rocky paths, and Fort Royal, where the Man in the Iron Mask spent eleven years imprisoned by Louis XIV. Three centuries later, nobody knows who he really was. His cell remains intact and I for one love a thick mystery.

Saint-Honorat, a few hundred metres farther, has been continuously inhabited by Cistercian monks since the fifth century. They make wine and warmly welcome visitors. And La Guérite, the island restaurant beneath Aleppo pines with the sea on every side, accessible only by boat, is one of the most perfect restaurants on the entire coast. Book ahead. This one must not remain a mystery.

Back on the mainland, head for Le Suquet and its view. The old town rises above the Vieux-Port in cobbled, vaulted lanes that tumble steeply towards the sea. Climb the tower of the Château de la Castre: 109 steps rewarded with the sea, the port, the Croisette, the islands, and the Esterel glowing red at the horizon - nice to have but not essential, the views are gorgeous everywhere.

Rue Meynadier and Marché Forville are where I'd spend the morning before any of this. The covered market, built in 1884, is where the city feeds itself. Fishmongers, market gardeners, a cheese stall run by the same family for generations, a florist in the same corner since before smartphones. On Mondays it becomes an antiques market.

Walk slowly through Rue Meynadier: delicatessens, Tesi the old hat shop, the canneries. Then order oysters at one of the pavement tables outside the market with a cold glass of rosé. That's one local way to spend a Saturday morning in Cannes.

For eating away from the tourist circuit, I keep returning to Sens on Rue d'Oran for its rotating chefs, natural wines and local crowd. Aux Bons Enfants, near Marché Forville, has been in the same family since 1935: honest Provençal market cooking, cash only, book ahead. Houumy, towards Petit Juas, is perfect for comforting bò bún, udon and wonton soup, run by the same chef you'll find at his Forville market stall - so you could also try the goodies there, or take away. While at the market, try Maison Lerda for all things meat. The steaks are a local institution, and the meat bar carries on a family butchery tradition that goes back three generations.

For something simple and on the go, grab a warm slice of pissaladière or a socca from the bakeries around Marché Forville.

For rooftop views, Bella at Hôtel Belle Plage is still one of my favourite finds. Come before sunset, order a drink, and watch the Estérel burn behind the bay.

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Where the Cannois live

I told you about the plush realtor mansplaining La Banane to me.

La Banane is the crescent-shaped centre between Le Suquet and Pointe Croisette. It contains the Palais des Festivals, the luxury hotels, Rue d’Antibes, and an enormous share of Cannes’ short-term rental market. Investors, second-home owners, people here for the Festival, MIPIM, Cannes Lions or a three-day congress, and then gone.

The secondary residence rate is exceptionally high here, and it shapes the social texture accordingly. Some streets are buzzing in May and noticeably hollow in November. Cannes-centre is not where most Cannois live. It’s where they work.

The Cannois live north of the station, uphill, or west.

Le Suquet is the old town, the hill the whole city grew around. It’s charming, atmospheric and tourist-facing, a beautiful place to wander and an easy trap of overpriced bouillabaisse. As a temporary address it has character and almost no parking.

Prado-République, just north of the station, is a different story. Wide streets, mature trees, bakeries, pharmacies and neighbourhood supermarkets. Young families, schools, green spaces, people who actually know their neighbours. It’s one of the most accessible residential areas in central Cannes and one of the few where daily life still feels entirely local.

Petit Juas, just uphill, is another genuinely residential neighbourhood but more on the premium side, with old villas, tree-lined streets and sleepy in winter.

La Californie climbs east above the bay through villa country with panoramic views of the Lérins Islands and the Esterel. This is prestige Cannes: private, leafy and expensive. Picasso lived here between 1955 and 1961, painting his villa and its gardens obsessively until a new apartment block interrupted the light. He left for Mougins. I’d rather write in Mougins than Cannes, too.

Le Cannet is technically a separate commune but functions as Cannes’ residential hinterland, climbing the hill to the north. Quieter and significantly more affordable, it has a proper Provençal old town and the Musée Bonnard, dedicated to Pierre Bonnard, who spent the last two decades of his life painting here. Le Cannet is for families, long-term expats, and anyone who values a parking space.

Cannes La Bocca stretches west beyond its own train station, with its own postal code and identity. It has two distinct sides: Bocca Sud along the coast, with long public sandy beaches and a seafront where locals come for their daily jog, and Bocca Nord, further inland and more working-class. There are sandy beaches—and that says it all. Further north, around Ranguin and Ranchito, are some of the city’s largest social housing estates, the side of Cannes that never makes it into the glossy real-estate brochures. Like many places, La Bocca rewards understanding the micro-location before buying.

INTEL

The connectivity reality

• The train station sits centrally. Antibes is seven minutes, Nice 35 to 40 minutes, Monaco under an hour. For regular movement along the coast, the train is the correct answer.

• The A8 motorway is the rational route to Nice by car: 30 to 35 minutes on a clear day. The coast road, the D6098, the bord de mer, is the prettier route: it follows the sea through Antibes, Villeneuve-Loubet, Cagnes-sur-Mer, and delivers you into Nice in approximately one hour in reasonable conditions, and significantly more in summer or during any major event. In July and August the coastal road between Antibes and Villeneuve-Loubet is not a route, it’s a parking lot with occasional forward movement. Even the A8 saturates in high season and during festival weeks, when the corridor between Cannes and Nice becomes one of the most unpleasant drives in France. An incident on the A8 backs up to Mandelieu and takes the coastal road down with it simultaneously. Fifteen-kilometre queues are not rare.

• The airport is 25 to 30 minutes by car via the A8 on a normal day; add buffer generously in summer.

• Parking in Cannes-centre is managed by the assumption that you are either on foot or willing to pay. Underground car parks are present and expensive. Residents with cars in La Banane only manage with their parking badge. The further you get from the Croisette corridor, the less of a problem this becomes.

Real estate Prices

La Banane and the Croisette: €6,000 at the lower end, climbing to €11,000/sqm for premium seafront addresses. La Californie and Pezou: €7,000 to €10,000 depending on view and construction quality. Le Prado-République: €4,000 to €5,500, the most accessible entry into central Cannes. La Bocca Sud: €3,500 to €5,000. Le Cannet: €3,500 to €6,000 depending on hillside position and view. The Lérins Islands are not for sale.

Since I’m on a scouting mission to find the best livable towns on the Côte for long-term stays, remote work or residency, I always look at logistics - on top of the genius loci.

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PROs

• One of the strongest urban identities on the coast, the name matters for resale value and rental potential.

• A genuine walking city within the centre: Forville, Le Suquet - but uphill, Rue d’Antibes, the Croisette, and the Pointe Croisette all on foot.

• Train connectivity is superb and traffic-independent: Antibes 7 minutes, Nice 35, Monaco under an hour.

• Year-round event calendar means no dead season.

• The Lérins Islands are ten minutes by ferry and among the best treasures here.

• Real residential neighbourhoods with proper daily-life infrastructure exist in Prado-République, Petit Juas, and Le Cannet, once you step away from La Banane.

• Sandy beaches in La Bocca and at Pointe Croisette, which most of the eastern Riviera cannot offer.

CONs

• La Banane is investment economy, not a neighbourhood: high secondary residence rate, event-driven occupancy, hollow in the off-season.

• Traffic is acceptable only in low season.

• Parking in the centre is a sustained problem and an ongoing cost.

• The congress and festival calendar shapes your life: you are buying into that rhythm permanently.

• La Bocca’s northern areas require careful micro-location research, the neighbourhood is not uniform.

• Development pressure on views is real; what a property looks out on today is not guaranteed, as Picasso discovered.

  Let the story travel!

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Today, where I come from - that is Romania - we celebrate Sânziene. The name comes from Sancta Diana, Roman goddess of hunt, fertility, and moonlight, but the ritual is far older than Rome itself, rooted in the pagan midsummer feast of Drăgaica, when flowers, herbs, first dew, and love divinations are believed to carry real power.

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Sânziene are radiant field fairies who dance on this night, blessing crops, healing plants, giving the gift of fertility and shaping fate. But disrespect them — skip the rituals, ignore the day — and they raise storms, bring hail, leave the field without fruit.

We also have the Iele — also pre-Christian, the alluring fairies of the night: beautiful, elusive, dangerous, dancing in hora circles that leave the grass burned or unnaturally lush.

Some believe they are different beings. One gentler, benefacting. One wilder, feral, insidious.

I believe they are one and the same. I believe they are us.

She who blesses the field can also burn it. She who heals can also drive mad. She who can be domestic is also untamed. By the way, the name Drăgaica is old Slavic and comes from Draga, one of our most cherished word, meaning dear, or beloved.

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I am a good driver who likes a cliffhanger. And by that I mean a cliff road: preferably coastal, winding, and hanging high above the sea.

I am probably not the best example. Some roads are best left to professionals, local drivers, or the strong-hearted member of the family with ner7ves of steel. But there is something about these roads that I find irresistible.

The road coils around the mountain, each bend reveals a completely different view. The rocks become cinematic. The sea below is hypnotic. This is no mere scenery; it feels alive, and with every turn you uncover a little more of it at your own pace.

Driving a cliff road is a strange excitement. I feel in control, but never entirely relaxed. Not quite afraid, but often holding my breath. Focused on the road while simultaneously fighting the urge to stare into the abyss.

A few weeks ago I discovered the Route des Crêtes above Cassis, and it immediately entered my personal hall of fame. You can read about it here. Two months ago you asked about the Amalfi drive and I said, don't do it in season. But the thrill!

So here are my favourite coastal cliff drives in Europe.

Route des Crêtes (France)

Between Cassis and La Ciotat, the Route des Crêtes offers superb views with unbelievable comfort. Although it runs along one of the highest sea cliffs in Europe, the road is wide, well maintained, and surprisingly relaxed to drive.

There are no heart-stopping edges, just countless viewpoints where you can stop to admire or hike through the Parc National des Calanques. The ease of access is phenomenal: you leave Cassis and, within ten minutes, you're nearly 600 metres above the Mediterranean.

Formentor (Mallorca)

The road through the Formentor Peninsula is pure drama. A rocky promontory of dizzying drops above the bluest sea, much of the drive winds through fragrant pine forests before reaching the lighthouse at the very tip. It is a demanding road, with endless hairpin bends and narrow stretches where wonder constantly flirts with terror, heightened by the many cyclists and motorcyclists sharing the adventure.

If the magnificent Serra de Tramuntana is Mallorca's dinosaur backbone, then Formentor is surely its ancient tail.

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The climb to Erice (Sicily)

One of Sicily's lesser-known scenic drives, the road climbs from Trapani to the medieval fortress town of Erice. ascending 750 metres in just 15 kilometres. As you climb, the views open onto Trapani, the famous salt pans, the Egadi Islands and the entire western coastline.

Over 3,000 years old, Erice has long worshipped Venus. Its medieval streets and Castello di Venere remain intact, giving the village a timeless atmosphere. It even has its own microclimate: you can leave Trapani in bright sunshine and arrive half an hour later wrapped in cool mist, the clouds affectionately known as the "kisses of Venus."

The Amalfi Coast Drive (Italy)

Probably Europe's most famous coastal drive, the Amalfi Coast is every bit as spectacular as its reputation suggests. The road clings to the cliffs, weaving between Positano, Praiano, Amalfi, Conca dei Marini and Ravello, with breathtaking views of the sea, hidden coves and islands around almost every bend. It is unforgettable—but outside peak season. In summer, the traffic often replaces exhilaration with frustration.

The Corniches (French Riviera)

The three coast roads locally called corniches link Nice with Menton but each follows a different elevation.

For the perfect mix, drive the Moyenne Corniche from Nice to the inestimable jewel that is Èze, then continue on the Grande Corniche for the highest viewpoints. The Moyenne charms with medieval villages and constant sea views, while the Grande lifts you high above the Côte d'Azur, where every bend feels like a balcony suspended over the Mediterranean.

Perhaps that is why I keep searching for roads like these. They are never simply a way of getting somewhere. They become the destination itself, asking you to slow down, stay present, feel exhilaration and awe and stress and earn every view one bend at a time. Much like life.

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I called it The Book of Happy. But it isn't my book anymore—it's ours.

When I started The Book of Happy, I simply set out to write down the small things I was grateful for. Then I realized something simple but powerful: this is infinite. Because every one of us carries hundreds of little moments like these. And together, they become a living collection of shared joy.

Write in The Book of Happy

Add your happy little thing in the comments on the original post, so we can keep growing The Book of Happy together—and remind each other that happiness is already here, smiling in the little things.

As a thank you, I'm creating a small minimalist sketch inspired by every single comment—everyone who adds one will get their own. ❤️

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There is this version of Monaco that you know from the movies - the gilded interiors, the poker chips and the Grand Prix. This Monaco is real, and it is spectacular, and you need to see it. But it is not the only Monaco.

The one that twists the cliché and makes it personal is smaller, older, and surprising. So I give you the Monaco where a solar-powered boat named Camille crosses the harbor every twenty minutes for €2, where free elevators tucked into cliff faces carry you between centuries with zero effort and no sweat, and where the best lunch in the principality costs less than a glass of wine at the Casino bar. You do not need a car. You do not need a driver. You need an insider tip and the willingness to ignore most of what everyone else is reading.

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A PERFECT DAY TO COVER IT ALL

I came back to Monaco several times after that first gambling experience, where I won €20 and lost about €60. The €20 I won stayed more precious than the loss, but I never played again. I returned to introduce Monaco to friends - the right way - and to see it with my parents, and once just because it was December.

I take the train from Nice-Ville - it is the wonderful train that runs along the coast like a miracle Riviera tram, about every half hour. The station you arrive at is called Monaco-Monte-Carlo, and that already answers the question everyone asks: Monaco is the country; Monte-Carlo is just one neighbourhood within it, the casino district. The two are used interchangeably by just about everyone, which is why the train station is called Monaco-Monte-Carlo, a small diplomatic solution to a very Riviera argument. The station itself is built entirely into the cliff, a subterranean marvel of engineering, and its exits deliver you straight up into the Casino district.

I’d arrive around noon and walk to the Casino. Casino Square, flanked by lush gardens and gorgeous Belle Époque buildings, with the Hotel de Paris - one of the most beautiful hotels in the world, in my humble opinion, is a sight to remember. So is the striking globe sculpture at the centre, Horizon. Too early for gambling, but the morning cultural visit runs until 1 pm and lets you walk through the marble atrium and the Belle Époque gaming salons as a tourist, without the gaming crowd. The Salle Garnier, the opera house built into the casino complex by Charles Garnier - the same architect responsible for the Paris Opéra - is included and underestimated. I love it. I take my time in the Salon Rose while everybody takes photos, because the light, the feel, and the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean earn the luxury reputation.

By 2 pm, I use the first magic trick and take the lifts from Casino Square down to Quai des États-Unis and board - second magic trick - Camille. Ten minutes across Port Hercule at eye level with the superyachts, €2, to Quai Rainier Ier below Le Rocher. A lift on the other side carries you up to Monaco-Ville without climbing a stair- the third magic trick.

I like to spend the afternoon on the Rock. Walk the medieval lanes: ochre walls, the Cathedral of Saint Nicholas, where Grace Kelly married Rainier in 1956 and where both of them are buried under a stone slab in the floor. The Palace Square. Then along the cliff edge through the Saint-Martin Gardens, Monaco’s oldest public park, Aleppo pines and Mediterranean scrub threading between the Cathedral and the Oceanographic Museum, the sea dropping away below. My favourite spot in the entire Principality-free, open 9 am to 6 pm, and the quietest place. The Oceanographic Museum itself is worth two hours for the aquarium and the terrace views.

From Le Rocher, I’d take bus line 2 to the Jardin Exotique, on the western cliffside in the Révoires district, built into a near-vertical rock face. More than a thousand species of succulents and cacti cascade down the cliff, started here in the 19th century by Augustin Gastaud, the same head gardener of the Saint-Martin Gardens, who became obsessed with the plants French soldiers brought back from Mexico. The views from the top are the widest in Monaco. Open until 6 pm in spring and autumn, 7 pm in summer. A single ticket covers the garden, the Observatory Cave beneath it, and the Museum of Prehistoric Anthropology. This is not a must for first-time visits, but for a slow one, it’s more than great. I, for one, am not a fan of the cement tunnels, tall buildings, and cramped style, so my favourite parts in Monaco are the old corners, the gardens, and the blue views.

Dinner time? You could splurge because, yes, you are in deluxe country and go to La Montgolfière in Monaco-Ville if you booked ahead. Or to Coya for a proper seaside lounge among the proper wealthy. Or, to be really cool, you could try Marché de la Condamine in the historic Place d’Armes. Condamine’s Halle Gourmande is open in the evenings Tuesday to Saturday, and it is one of the few places that don’t feel stiff around here. It is a lively, good place that doesn’t try to get you drunk like other such food halls, which is for the better, because by this time the Casino gaming rooms are open and remain tempting until the small hours. Better take the train back.

Like most over-touristy places, it is all too easy to swallow the cliché whole and far too hard to find its soul. So, I cut the essay short to leave more room for Monaco intel - my aces up the sleeve, if you will.

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THE INTEL

THE ROCK AND THE HARBOUR

Monaco occupies just two square kilometers of cliff-edged coast between France and the sea. The old town, Monaco-Ville, sits on top of a steep limestone promontory the locals call Le Rocher: the Rock. Below it, Port Hercule has been receiving ships since Greek and Roman times. The Casino district, Monte-Carlo, perches on the hillside above, all Belle Époque grandeur, smell of money and Lamborghini traffic jam.

What most visitors do not know is that these three zones, each dramatically distinct in character, are connected by a hidden network of free public elevators, escalators, and moving walkways. The Monégasques use them every day as casually as other people use stairs. Monaco operates 79 public lifts, 35 escalators, and 8 travelators that allow you to cross the entire country from one end to the other in roughly 45 minutes on foot. They are completely free and operate around the clock. Look for the blue signs marked ascenseur public wherever the streets tilt upward: they are Monaco's great democratic secret in a place that became a synonym for exclusivity.

HOW TO ARRIVE

There is no good reason to drive to Monaco, and several excellent reasons not to: parking is expensive - basically you need to leave the car at the entry near the train station-, while the train is one of the most pleasurable short rides. Nice-Ville to Monaco-Monte-Carlo in 25 minutes.

The alternative for those who prefer a slower ride along the coast: Bus 100 follows the Basse Corniche, the lowest of the three coastal roads, past Villefranche-sur-Mer, Èze-sur-Mer, Cap-d’Ail, and Roquebrune-Cap-Martin before reaching Monaco. The full journey from Nice takes roughly 75 minutes and costs €1.50. You will want a window. You will also want patience in summer traffic, when the Basse Corniche becomes a slow procession of rented convertibles.

THE BATEAU BUS

Since 2007, a solar-powered electric boat called Camille has been skimming across Port Hercule. Operated by Monaco Riviera Navigation, this water bus links Monaco-Ville on Le Rocher directly to the Monte-Carlo side of the port, erasing what would otherwise be a one-kilometer trek around the harbor. Camille cuts across the 350-meter harbor mouth in just ten minutes, letting you watch legendary superyachts drift past at eye level for the mere price of a metro ticket.

The boat runs continuously from 8:00 AM to 8:00 PM, with departures every 20 minutes. On the south side, it slips away from Quai Rainier 1er at the end of Quai Antoine 1er, sitting just below the Oceanographic Museum and the Prince’s Palace. On the north side, it docks at Quai des États-Unis right next to Quai Chicane, where two public lifts wait to carry you straight up into the heart of Monte-Carlo.

The fare is €2 paid onboard, or €1.50 if you tap a bank card or use the Monapass app. Because it is fully integrated into the local transit network, standard Monaco bus passes and day tickets work on the water just as smoothly as they do on the road.

Take it at least once in each direction. The view of the Rock rising from the sea, framed by the blinding white geometry of the world’s most exclusive yachts, is a profoundly personal imprint left on you by Monaco.

MOVING THROUGH THE PRINCIPALITY

Once you arrive, forget the taxi queue. Monaco is supremely walkable for those who know where the lifts are.

From the train station, the Casino is a short flat walk. From the Casino side of the port, Camille takes you to the foot of Le Rocher. From the port, a lift carries you up to Monaco-Ville without climbing a single stair, emerging near the northeast corner of the Oceanographic Museum. From there, the Palace, the Cathedral, and the Saint-Martin Gardens are all a level stroll. To return to the Casino side: Camille, then the lifts from Quai des États-Unis, and you are in front of the Hôtel de Paris in under fifteen minutes.

For those entering from Beausoleil on the French side, a network of cross-border public elevators connects the hillside French district to Monaco below, operating from 5am to 9pm. You step in on French soil and step out in another country. Monaco is the only place in the world where this is possible.

The Petit Train, a small tourist tram running a fixed circuit, is a gentle option for anyone who finds the lifts and walking still too much. It circles the main sights on a 30-minute loop and costs around €12.

WHERE TO EAT

The only restaurant rule that matters in Monaco: do not eat near the Casino on a full stomach of tourist-trap desperation. Walk ten minutes in any direction and the prices halve. This is the rule everywhere touristy, of course: the point is not the cost per se, but the value.

Marché de la Condamine / La Halle Gourmande: The truest address in Monaco everyone misses. Located on Place d'Armes, at the foot of Le Rocher, La Condamine Market has been Monaco's daily gathering place since 1880. Inside La Halle Gourmande, around 20 stalls serve local specialities: the barbajuan, Monaco's own deep-fried pastry filled with spinach and ricotta; socca, the chickpea flour pancake shared with Nice; fresh pasta; the catch of the day. It is a popular lunch destination for local office workers, which is the only recommendation that matters. Note that from January 2026 through early 2027 the market is undergoing renovation and operates from a temporary setup on Place d'Armes. The food, the atmosphere, and the people-watching are unaffected.

La Montgolfière-Henri Geraci: A hidden gem in Monaco-Ville, tucked among souvenir shops on a pedestrian street near the Palace. Family-owned, operated by a Monaco-born chef whose cooking blends Asian travel with years in Paris, Nice, and Monaco. The catch of the day arrives with genuinely creative preparation. Small, very good, worth booking ahead. Closed Wednesdays and Sundays.

Tip Top: Near the Casino, no-frills, shared tables, prices that are among the most accessible in Monaco. Burgers, pizza, escargot done well. The kind of place that exists everywhere in France and nowhere else in Monte-Carlo.

Chez Pierre Monte-Carlo: A family-run address with the feel of a Parisian bistro: unpretentious, friendly, simple gourmet meals at reasonable prices.

To splurge: Louis XV at the Hôtel de Paris remains the absolute reference for Monegasque gastronomy, under Alain Ducasse's direction. The lunch menu is, by Monaco standards, an act of fiscal generosity.

On the other side of the gastronomic spectrum you have Cooks Pizza e cucina, an absolute lifesaver for anyone trying to survive Monaco on a normal budget and appetite. Located 100 m from the Monaco-Monte-Carlo railway station on Boulevard Princesse Charlotte, it completely embodies the “halve the price, double the value” rule. It is a tiny, cozy Italian bistro with a high-top counter. Instead of paying a premium for white tablecloths and a view of cramped yachts, you are paying honest euros for phenomenal, no-nonsense comfort food.

THE BEST VIEW

Saint-Martin Gardens, along the cliff edge of Le Rocher between the Oceanographic Museum and the Cathedral. No entry fee, no queue, and a drop to the Mediterranean that makes every photograph from the Casino terrace look indoor by comparison.

Fort Antoine. Built in the early 18th century as a military fortress, it is now a completely open, peaceful public space used as an open-air theater during the summer. You can sit on the old stone parapets among lone rows of cannonballs, framed by olive trees, and watch the sunset.

Crique des Pêcheurs (Fishermen’s Cove): The locals go here for a swim. Tucked directly beneath the sheer limestone cliffs of the Oceanographic Museum is a tiny, raw, gravel-and-rock inlet that most visitors miss entirely because you have to descend a hidden stone staircase to find it. It is incredibly narrow, often hit by dramatic crashing waves, and feels entirely wild.

I made this a personal tradition - I have so many! - and it is one of my favourites, not only because of the opera and the unbeatable setting, but also because Verona is one of the best cities in Italy. But about that - in another story.

Two things are important for your happiness at the Arena di Verona Festival: stay in the city for at least one night, so you don’t have to drive, rush off afterwards, or worry about parking. And forget luxury if you’re a first-timer. You don’t want the best tickets; you want the cheap tickets. The premium seats come with evening attire and cushioned comfort, but what you need is to climb high, sit on the warm stone, be handed a candle, and experience the music from above, in a kaleidoscope of energy and two thousand years of history compressed into a single summer night.

Arena di Verona

The Arena di Verona is the third-largest surviving Roman amphitheatre in the world, and the best preserved. Construction dates to the first century AD, most likely during the reign of Augustus or Tiberius, and the elliptical shape was engineered with two precise goals: to hold thirty thousand spectators and to ensure that every one of them could hear. So, in their infinite skill, the Romans built the world’s finest acoustic hall and then spent centuries throwing gladiators and wild animals into it before anyone thought to stage an opera.

The outer ring that once formed the monumental façade is largely gone. A catastrophic earthquake in 1117 brought most of it down, and most of the rest was quarried for houses. A single fragment survives on the north side - the Ala (”the Wing”) - four arches of pink and white Valpolicella limestone, tall enough to suggest the full scale of what surrounded the building before the earthquake took it. It is this ruin that gives the Arena its particular silhouette, ancient, incomplete and so alluring. Inside, the cavea - the amphitheatre’s seating bowl - is almost entirely intact: forty-four tiers of the same local limestone, climbing in concentric rings around a stage that was, for most of its life, a floor of sand. The word arena comes from harena, the Latin for sand. It was there to absorb the blood.

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After the time of gladiators was over, medieval Verona found other uses for the space: jousting, justice, public spectacle of every kind. Goethe visited in 1786 and wrote about it. Napoleon attended a hunting event there in 1798. And then, in 1913, a tenor named Giovanni Zenatello was walking through the Arena with friends when someone asked him to sing a few arias. He did, and they all stopped, and listened to the way the sound reverberated inside the stone bowl, and knew immediately what needed to happen. That summer, Verdi’s Aida was staged here to mark the centenary of the composer’s birth. The audience came from across Italy and Europe. It launched a tradition that has not stopped since.

This summer

The 103rd Festival runs from 12 June to 12 September, 50 evenings across the summer. It’s the longest season I can remember.

La Traviata opens the festival in a new production directed by Paul Curran that brings in - for the first time ever - the Moulin Rouge. Violetta’s story unfolds against the lights and iconography of the Paris institution, in search of a burlesque sensation of an already all-time favourite.

Aida runs in two versions simultaneously. Stefano Poda’s contemporary “crystal” production - transparent sets, shimmering light, bold costuming - sits alongside the return of Zeffirelli’s legendary staging, the golden pyramids and imposing scenery that many still consider the definitive visual interpretation of the opera.

Poda also directs Nabucco. La Bohème is back for four nights only. Turandot marks its centenary - 100 years since its premiere - with Zeffirelli’s fairy-tale production, costumes by Oscar-winner Emi Wada.

Roberto Bolle returns for two evenings of international ballet. And on 19 August, Viva Vivaldi - The Four Seasons Immersive Concert for those who want the Arena experience but no opera.

After the show

The performance ends late, and exiting fourteen thousand people from a Roman amphitheatre takes time. Don’t rush it. This is the best time to take photos and watch the Arena empty, like a gigantic creature catching its breath.

The crowd spills into Piazza Bra, where most people linger to compare casts, productions and favourite moments. Most of us book tickets for at least two different shows, so we take the time to compare notes with fellow opera buffs.

By now I also have a small tradition of finding friends after the show, even if they were sitting in completely different sections. Last time we spent twenty minutes texting “where are you?” while standing ten metres apart among fourteen thousand people, then eventually found each other over a glass of wine. Now the tradition is simple: straight to that glass of Valpolicella, at an osteria with three tables and a few small wall shelves for drinks - nobody wants to sit down again anyway.

If you’re staying in or near the historic centre, walking back is often quicker - and always a delight - than waiting for a taxi. But don’t walk straight back. The night is young and full of laughter, especially towards Piazza delle Erbe. Stop for a bite and that glass of Valpolicella Ripasso, or even better, Amarone. Never at the neatly set restaurants around the Arena; always in the smaller streets deeper inside the city, where there are the small taverns with cheese, cold cuts and house wine like our Bugiardo.

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THE INTEL

• Book early and book direct. Buy only through the official site or the box office at Via Dietro Anfiteatro 6/B. Third-party resellers charge multiples of the real price.

• On seating. There are three main types of seats: the Poltrone / Poltronissime (stalls): the flat central seating on the arena floor, closest to the stage, cushioned, and the most comfortable option, but also the most expensive; then the sweet spot Settori laterali, which are fixed chair seats in the lower and mid tiers, offering a good balance between visibility and price; and the Gradinate: you sit on the high stone steps of the Arena (bring a cushion or rent one at the entrance). The cheapest option and the most atmospheric. This is where you get the full scale of the Arena and are part of the candle ritual. Lighting candles is forbidden in the premium seating areas -for fear of fire.

• The pre-opera experience worth knowing about. “Vinitaly the Opera’s Ouverture” is an exclusive pre-opera tasting located in the elegant loggia of the historic Palazzo della Gran Guardia. Just steps from the Arena, it lets guests sample six premium regional wines - Masi, Allegrini, Tommasi, among others - paired with fine local gastronomy before the curtain goes up. Addable directly when purchasing tickets on arena.it.

• The terrace most people will never find. Built into the ancient fragment connecting the Ala to the Arena’s first ring, the Star Roof is a private terrace above Piazza Bra that has survived intact since the first century. Before select performances, a Michelin-starred dinner by chef Giancarlo Perbellini is served here for a maximum of 24 guests, who are then escorted directly to Royal Box seats. This is not widely publicised and is usually reserved for high-end receptions. But for a big occasion, this is the exclusive type of European experience that you can’t buy anywhere else.

• On the night. Arrive early enough to walk Piazza Bra before curtain - the square in the hour before the show is its own theatre. The moccoletti candles are distributed at the entrance. Bring one with you just in case. Light it as the overture begins.

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