T  H  E     D  A  N  G  E  R  S     O  F

BY PETER MAYLE | none of us these days can escape those small, brightly colored and infinitely alluring scraps of propaganda that our more fortunate friends send us when they're on vacation and we're not. Nothing provokes envy and Monday-morning gloom faster than a postcard. And when that postcard is from Provence, slightly wine-stained, redolent with heat and sunlight and tranquillity, it is probably enough to make you kick the cat as you leave to go to the office.

All, however, is not what it seems. Beneath that implausibly blue sky, a number of surprises -- never even hinted at in the photograph of the picturesque village or the genial lavender-cutter -- lie in wait for the innocent visitor. I believe I've experienced most of them, and these words of caution are the result of personal and occasionally painful research. Be warned. If you venture to Provence, you will encounter some, if not all, of the following local specialties.

UNDISCIPLINED WEATHER

Provence has been accurately described as a cold country with more than its fair share of sunshine, and the climate can't seem to make up its mind whether to imitate Alaska or the Sahara. There were days during our first winter when the temperature fell to 15 degrees Fahrenheit; in summer, it can stay at 85-plus for week after rainless week. The local zephyr is the mistral, which has been known to blow at 110 miles an hour, taking hats, spectacles, roof tiles, open shutters, old ladies and small unsecured animals with it. And there are storms of quite spectacular violence. It is the meteorological equivalent of a meal consisting of curry and ice cream.

KAMIKAZE DRIVERS

Your first few hours on the roads of Provence will not be dull. The Provencal motorist, brimming with élan, impatience and sometimes, it must be said, with half a liter of good red wine, regards driving in much the same way that a matador looks on his encounters with a bull -- that is, as a challenge to come as close to catastrophe as possible without incurring physical damage. And so you will find, to your alarm, that cars appear to be glued to your exhaust pipe until a sufficiently perilous moment to overtake you presents itself. This will be achieved with centimeters to spare on a blind bend, while the driver conducts a spirited conversation with his passenger that requires at least one hand being off the wheel. (Conversation in Provence cannot take place without manual assistance.) The mistake made by most visitors is to give in to natural impulses and close the eyes as certain disaster looms. If you can resist that, you will probably survive.

ELASTIC CLOCKS

The Provencal attitude toward time is that there is plenty of it. If by chance you should run out of it today, more will be available tomorrow. Or the day after. Or next week.

This admirably relaxed state of mind is, of course, at odds with the curious habit that many visitors bring with them from Paris or London or New York: the exotic concept of punctuality. It's not that this is ignored. Indeed, the important matter of the next rendezvous is often discussed seriously and at great length over two or three drinks. But somehow the arrangement is never quite as precise as you might expect. A day -- let's say Tuesday --will be agreed upon with much emphatic nodding. This encourages you to suggest that a time on Tuesday should be fixed, and here you begin to sense a certain amiable but firm disinclination to pin down the rendezvous to anything more exact than a tentative commitment to either the morning or the afternoon. As it turns out, even this is optimistic, since nobody comes until Friday. Excuses are performed by the shoulders. Elsewhere in the world, patience is a virtue. In Provence, it's a necessity.

BODILY ASSAULTS (EXTERNAL)

There have been many occasions when a five-minute chat with a Provencal friend has left me feeling as though I've undergone a course of brisk exploratory surgery. Apart from the obligatory mangling handshake -- or, with the opposite sex, the double or triple kiss -- there is the vigorous kneading of the shoulder, the attack on the breastbone by the tapping of an iron index finger, the friendly clap around the kidneys, the odd glancing blow from the knuckles of a gesticulating hand, and the tweak administered to the cheek by way of a fond farewell.

In other words, conversation is more than a mere exchange of words. It is a bruising physical encounter with a human windmill.

BODILY ASSAULTS (INTERNAL)

One is invited and expected to drink. Provence is awash with locally produced wine, from the modest ordinaire to the grand and heady vintages of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and it would be impolite and unadventurous not to try as many of them as your liver can stand. There are, however, two alcoholic booby-traps that should be approached with extreme caution.

The first is vin rosé. It may be a pale, smoky pink or a deeper tint not unlike the blush of a grog-blossom nose, and it looks light, frivolous and harmless. It tastes delicious, crisp and chilled, the perfect drink for a blinding hot day. You reach for another glass (or another bottle, as the first one slipped down so pleasantly) and congratulate yourself on avoiding anything too heavy. This is a mistake, since many rosés contain as much as 13 percent alcohol. This, combined with an hour or two in the after-lunch sun, can produce a truly epic hangover.

And then there is pastis, by far the most popular aperitif in Provence. The taste is clean and sharp and refreshing, exactly what one needs to settle the dust and stimulate the palate after a hectic morning in the market. There is no immediate jolt, as the alcohol is masked by the other ingredients, and it is insidiously easy to drink. Only later, when you try unsuccessfully to walk to lunch in a straight line, do you feel the effects of this delightful Provencal invention.

THE LINGERING GUEST

A house in Provence, whether you own it or rent it, is a magnet. No sooner are you installed, in what you hoped would be a blissful seclusion, than the phone calls begin. They are from friends, or friends of friends, who are concerned that you might be lonely or bored. By chance, they find themselves free to come down, cheer you up and entertain you.

What a noble sacrifice! They have made the journey from some distant rain-sodden paradise in the north just to be with you, to share the discomforts of your bucolic existence -- the sun, the pool, the endless racket of corks coming out of bottles, the siestas. And their stamina is quite extraordinary. Despite third-degree sunburn, gastric disorders (always blamed on the local water, never the local wine), lack of television, mercilessly long meals and all the other shortcomings of the simple life, they bravely soldier on. And on. And on. A weekend visit stretches to a week, and then 10 days, or longer. One hero arrived in October and was still with us on New Year's Eve, only leaving when the builders came to knock down his bedroom wall.

And still they come, from Easter until Christmas, willing to endure anything that man and nature can throw at them in Provence. I suppose that, like me, they're gluttons for punishment.
March 25, 1997

W A N D E R L U S T