T H I S+W E E K Crime takes a holiday By David Corn Cavorting with mystery writers at a conference-cum-carnival in northern Spain A lucky life By Don George, Editor Peter Mayle talks about writing, painting and taking risks > August advice By Peter Mayle Oh to be in Paris -- now that the Parisians are gone D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer It's summer -- stay out of the kitchen! Passages "To Timbuktu" By Mark Jenkins African encounters Mondo Weirdo Parts is parts Readers' Tips and Tales The hubris of going "where the tourists don't go" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, July 22 Thai Die By Karl Taro Greenfeld An adventure gone awry in northern Thailand A full list of all Wanderlust articles

_____O H +T O +B E +I N +P A R I S +-- +N O W +T H A T _____T H E +P A R I S I A N S +A R E +G O N E BY PETER MAYLE | to be honest, I have to say that I dislike conventional vacations. I dislike the tyranny of rigid plans and the feeling of being part of a herd. Above all, I dislike having to assume the disguise of the happy tripper, feigning enjoyment (because I've paid dearly for it) despite bad weather, disappointing destinations and pretentious, overpriced food. I'd rather stay at home. For several years now, home has been Provence, where many other people come for three or four weeks a year to get away from it all. I don't blame them. The scenery is magnificent, the weather is usually good -- 300 days of sunshine, so the Office of Tourism tells us -- and the food is exceptional. Visitors eat too much, drink too much, take too much sun and generally have a grand time. How lucky we are, they tell us, to live here. And they're right. Even so, there are times when both the soul and the overworked cook to whom I'm married feel the need for change -- to escape from the kitchen, to forsake the typewriter, to take a rest from house guests, to abandon routine. Like everyone else, we need a holiday. Just a few days, no more. But they have to be a complete contrast to the way we normally live. That is why, when we feel we've had too much of a good thing, we exchange peace for hubbub, solitude for crowds, mountains for concrete, stars for street lights. We go to a city for a breath of foul air. And we go off-season, as much as cities have an off-season. Venice in the summer, for instance, with the tourists thicker than the pigeons in St. Mark's Square, and the natives themselves tired and fractious, is not a place to be. But Venice in deep winter is wonderful -- foggy, spooky, mysterious, romantic. You can walk at a normal pace, instead of being reduced to the frustrated summer shuffle imposed by an endless clot of sightseers, and you can hear the echo of your own footsteps in the deserted alleys. You can have a glass of wine in Harry's Bar without having to compete with thirsty hordes from Tokyo or New York. You can have the museums and palazzi pretty much to yourself. You might even enjoy that rare experience, a smile from a Venetian waiter. But in fact, the winter months are not a problem for us. The urge to leave, for Venice or anywhere else, is dormant. Provence is quiet, the guest room is empty, truffles are in season and life is serene. This changes abruptly in July, with the arrival of the first tide of sun-starved refugees from the north, and then the season reaches its manic peak at the beginning of August. Traffic jams 25 miles long fume and growl on the autoroute. The baker runs out of bread, the village runs out of parking spots, the locals run out of patience. The Parisians have arrived. For the month. What better time to go to Paris? To be in Paris in August always makes me feel that I'm in the largest and most elegant village in the world. With its population depleted, it becomes more spacious and more airy. The boulevards look wider. The trees in the parks and gardens have room to breathe. And the whole rhythm of the place changes, as if the foot has been lifted from the urban accelerator. People stroll and look around, instead of barreling along the streets with their heads down, late for something. The cafe waiters slow down to a Mediterranean amble, and nobody minds that service is less brisk than usual. The cab drivers restrain their natural passion for sounding their horns every 10 seconds, and occasionally deign to chat to their passengers. Couples picnic by the Seine and in the Tuileries. It's not unknown to see a gendarme grin. Paris is en vacances. That in itself is reason enough to be there, but I also take a considerable and most unworthy pleasure in thinking of what we've left behind. Down in the south, the beaches are packed, the roads are a nightmare and the heat is building up to the annual thunderstorms of August. And then, at the end of the month, when Provence is about to start its loveliest season, back everyone comes to Paris to work. And we go home. July 29, 1997 Do you have a favorite off-season getaway? Share your strategies in Table Talk. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - What's happening in Paris this August? Discover the city's hottest festivals and exhibitions in the Paris and Environs area of Wanderlust's Marketplace.

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