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We have collectively blundered into a P.T. Barnum media age when being first trumps being accurate. The economic rewards of the Internet flow to those who win the search-engine wars by being fast and furious rather than to those laggards who wait to be accurate and comprehensive. It is as if the motto of today’s journalism has become: “He who dies with the most clicks wins.”

–Columnist Walter Shapiro

I have two deadlines so I shouldn’t write this.  And you do, too, so you shouldn’t be reading it. But life flies. Can’t miss stuff. Right?

Click. Lost you. Click. Back, huh?

Forget the humor. As Shirley Sherrod learned first-hand, today’s politics/media vortex sucks us in one minute  and spit us into a different strange landscape minutes or hours later. Everyone is dizzy. But is anyone smarter?

Now Walter Shapiro (in a column passed on by friend and former True/Slanter Jeff Seglin) is offering a solution: Slow news.  News that means something. News that concentrates on what’s important and verifiable rather than throwing stuff on a virtual wall to see what sticks — and gets clicks.

That’s it. Really  do have two deadlines. But enjoy Walter’s piece (linked here and above).

And Walter, do send me the slow news petition to sign.

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My colleague Paul Niwa offered this interesting observation today: The media can no longer stand on the sidelines in high-minded silence when a firestorm of spin, packaged as news, races across the blogosphere.

The rules of journalism, in other words, have changed. And there is no going back.

Niwa made this observation in the context of the Shirley Sherrod story.  Several major news outlets, he noted, chose to simply ignore Andrew Breithart, the right-wing propagandist at BigGovernment.com, when he released a video clip carefully edited to make it appear as if Sherrod had made racially charged remarks when she spoke in March to an N.A.A.C.P. chapter.

But in a world in which the public needs reporters more than ever to sort fact from fiction, silence becomes its own form of complicity. That’s why I now believe that The Washington Post was right during the presidential campaign to publish a front-page story about incessant (and false) rumors that Barack Obama was a closet Muslim.

At the time I cheered critics, some of whom posted commentary calling The Post story a contender for the worst piece of political reporting on the campaign trail.  Certainly the piece could have been cast less opaquely. But silence in this case would not have been golden.

The traditional media can’t leave the task of debunking myth to specialty sites such as FactCheck.org any more, even though investigating fabrication doesn’t  come all that naturally to serious journalists. They’d rather spend their limited time investigating real news rather than debunking tall tales.

But the sordid story of Sherrod’s dismissal, without any serious investigation by the administration into the veracity of the charges made against her, suggests media cannot simply ignore what they suspect or know to be untrue.  They need to expose the lie or fabrication — and embarrass those who spread it.

So when True/Slant shuts its doors Sunday, I’ll at least for now split my blogging between two sites, both on blogspot.  When I’m writing about American politics and culture, I’ll post to America in the Age of Obama. When I’m writing about travel or posting more whimsical personal pieces, I’ll put them on Lansonfootprints.  If any of you are gluttons for punishment or want to look up past posts, I’ve been told that True/Slant archives will live on, mine at http://trueslant.com/jerrylanson.

I’ll miss being part of a community of writers and bloggers, and will be on the lookout for opportunities to join one again. In the meantime, however, please do stop by and leave a note occasionally. Out among the millions in the solitary blogosphere, the silence can be deafening.

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I’ve been traveling so I’m just now fully focusing on the tawdry tale of Shirley Sherrod’s firing for utterly fabricated reasons.

That right-wing bloggers would totally twist and distort the words of someone, particularly a black public official, to score points and manipulate public opinion doesn’t surprise me. The Beck-Limbaugh school of despicable distortion has driven what passes for political dialogue on the Right in this country for a long time now.

But that a Democratic administration and the NAACP would buy this distortion hook, line and sinker without question, that a government official would be fired with no effort to inquire of her what the facts truly were — that’s a shocker.

A friend sent me an email today with the transcript of the speech that Shirley Sherrod actually gave. I won’t characterize it. You can read it yourself below. But as my friend, a well-respected retired journalist and journalism educator, writes: “Not until I read the full transcript of her remarks this morning … did I realize the depth of the injustice done to Sherrod. Not only was she not racist in the speech in question. She was the very opposite of racist – she was making the case, as a black woman, for the importance of not being racist, for seeing clearly the needs of all people. It is an eloquent and pretty amazing speech … That it was distorted in such cruel, mean ways that were blindly accepted is unbelievable.”

Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack has now offered Sherrod a new job. How sweet. In the meantime, I’d like to know who is asking these questions: (1) Why did no one talk to her before she was publicly humiliated and fired as the chief of the department’s rural development office in Georgia? (2) Why did no one ask to see the entire 45-minute speech these out-of-context remarks were drawn from? (3) Why are the Democratic Party and NAACP, of all people, so cowed by the demagogues running the blogosphere for the right?  (4) Why hasn’t Tom Vilsack been asked to resign as Secretary of Agriculture?  (5) Where is Barack Obama in all this?

In case you like me were traveling during this brouhaha, here’s a brief summary.  The uproar began, the Associated Press reports, “When the flame-throwing conservative website BigGovernment.com posted a two-and-a-half-minute video clip of Sherrod’s speech to a rural south Georgia NAACP banquet. The website’s owner, Andrew Breitbart, said it showed that the NAACP condones racist elements, just as the civil rights group accuses the tea party movement of doing.”

So how did the administration react to this “flame-throwing conservative website.”  Even before remarks taped by Bill O’Reilly calling for Sherrod’s resignation ran on Fox News Monday night, the Department of Agriculture had forced her resignation, The New York times reports.  It continues:

By Tuesday, Ms. Sherrod’s forced resignation was the talk of cable television news, and it was becoming clear that the Breitbart video clip had been taken out of context. After seeing the full video, the N.A.A.C.P., which had initially applauded Ms. Sherrod’s resignation, had reversed itself, saying it had been ’snookered’ into believing she had been acting with racial bias.

But what appears to have really happened is that the White House and NAACP had panicked. Sherrod gave her speech in March. Yet in the idiotic, red-hot, every-second-counts environment to which news and politics pander today — and I don’t use that word lightly — everyone seemed to have been scrambling desperately to control damage rather than to gather facts.

Noted a Times editorial: “The administration’s haste to fire Ms. Sherrod was unfair and unseemly. She told of how an agriculture under secretary phoned her to demand she resign instantly via her BlackBerry. The official anxiously cited the likelihood the furor would ‘be on Glenn Beck tonight.’”

I don’t know Shirley Sherrod. But she certainly sounds like a good woman to me. Notes The Times:

The full video of Ms. Sherrod’s March speech to an N.A.A.C.P. gathering in Douglas, Ga., shows that it was a consciousness-raising story. Ms. Sherrod’s father was murdered in 1965 by white men who were never indicted; she spoke about how in response, she vowed to stay in the South and work for change. She married the Rev. Charles Sherrod, a civil rights leader and cofounder of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

Later, as director of a nonprofit group in Georgia formed to help black farmers, long before she went to work for the Agriculture Department, Ms. Sherrod received a request to help a white farm couple, Roger and Eloise Spooner, and she confessed in the speech that the request had given her pause. She did help them, however, and as the fracas over her firing became public this week, the Spooners came to her defense …

Given her background and a roomful of people who heard her original speech, how could top officials in the executive branch of the U.S. government act so hastily and so ignorantly?  And will they learn anything the next time red-hot, manipulative spin passes itself off as news on the blogosphere?  I wonder.

But the world of the Web has its strengths. You can be your own judge. Here are Sherrod’s words, posted on Salon by Editor-in-Chief Joan Walsh.  And here is how Sherrod, the woman fired for supposedly racist remarks, ended her speech.

I’ve come to realize that we have to work together and — you know, it’s sad that we don’t have a room full of white and blacks here tonight ’cause we have to overcome the divisions that we have. We have to get to the point as Toni Morrison said race exists but it doesn’t matter. We have to work just as hard — I know it’s — you know, that division is still here, but our communities are not going to thrive — you know, our children won’t have the communities that they need to be able to stay in and live in and have a good life if we can’t figure this out, you all. White people, black people, Hispanic people, we all have to do our part to make our communities a safe place, a healthy place, a good environment.

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BALTIMORE, Md. — The nickname, “Charm City,” is served up with a tongue-in-cheek twist in this gritty, no-nonsense, blue-collar town.

Baltimore is a city of simmering summer heat and door-front stoops, cobblestone streets and small shops, neighborhood bars and more than its share of street people. It’s a port city that’s strived to rebuild around its waterfront. It’s a city of brick row houses, some in disrepair, others spruced up down to their brass door knobs.

But something else does stand out about this city: In its distinctive, no bullshit manner, it is charming. Waitresses call you hon. Crossing guards greet you with a friendly hello. School kids wander to community guardens as part of summer camp. And, from her perch amid plastic flowers on her stoop, a great-grandmother down the block from our daughter will regale you with stories of how she bought her place with $200 down and $7-a-month payments during the Depression.

Those of varying ages and races appear to mingle comfortably. And everywhere, residents sports orange and black, the colors of the ever-struggling Baltimore Orioles, the team with a great downtown stadium and awful, cellar-dwelling record.

Our older daughter Betsy moved to Baltimore 11 years ago to enroll in Maryland Institute College of Art. She never returned home, not even for a summer. She’s waited tables, tended bar, run a college cafeteria and now, along with her guy, co-manages Turp’s, a down-home, neighborhood sports bar on Charles Street two blocks south of the train station. Since July 2, she’s been on leave, the mom of newborn Dylan, our grandson.  Baby and mom are doing great, moving at the same casual, hot-climate pace that marks much that’s done in Charm City.

In afternoons and evenings, this has been a chance to bond with Betsy and the baby. But from 8 to noon, before the streets truly sizzle, Kathy and I are giving Betsy a little space and finding new places to walk or read or drink coffee in Baltimore’s neighborhoods.  If there’s one thing that’s clear, it’s this. Baltimore is truly as eccentric as Pulitzer-Prize-winning author Anne Tyler makes it sound in her novels. It’s a place of sniffing bow-legged dogs, old men washing pickups, and young and old alike hanging out on narrow streets, talking to friends and watching strangers walk by.

Kathy and I are starting to wonder whether we might consider retiring here someday. But then, we probably should ask Betsy first.

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After three weeks without television news, with limited Internet access, with our daily dose of information neatly packaged in the spare and succinct International Herald Tribune, read leisurely at a French sidewalk cafe, I find it jarring to return to the noise that often passes for American news.

In the Sunday New York Times, Peter Baker put it this way:

This is what passes for political discourse in Washington these days. Someone in a position of authority, or at least celebrity, says something modestly interesting and someone on the other side – or sometimes even the same side – blows it up into something resembling a full-fledged contretemps. It’s politics by slip of the tongue.

This at a time when the issues confronting Washington could hardly be more consequential. Yet explaining the new financial regulation bill that passed last week or the new health care program slowly coming into effect is complicated compared to the media catnip of a good partisan fight.

In politics and political news, it seems, this country has reduced itself to a world of finger-pointing, of bitterness, of scoring points and of playing gotcha.  Analyzing is out. Bashing is big. Who needs to stop and think when everyone, it seems, has the answer:  That it’s someone else’s fault.

In France, I loved reading about the World Cup and Tour de France, about Britain’s apology for Bloody Sunday and France’s debate over head scarves in schools, about U.S. command struggles in Afghanistan and the ways technology is changing the brain. I learned things. I engaged as I relaxed. I read things that provoked lively conversations with Kathy.

It is this engagement in contemporary events and issues that drew me to the news business three-and-a-half decades ago.  The chance to inform. To keep the conceited and powerful accountable. To know first what people soon would be talking about and, perhaps, to help them order those thoughts.

The newsroom of the San Jose Mercury News had plenty of pace when I arrived there as an enterprise editor in 1987. I worked for the smaller, leaner, less reverent afternoon, or p.m., paper.  We had edition deadlines at 7:30 a.m., 10:30, 11:30 and then 1 p.m., a pace fast enough to leave me burdened with splints on my arms for repetitive stress injuries after less than half a year.

Yet even then, time remained for thought, for reflection, for planning, for follow-up.  News wasn’t only what was happening that instant, but what came next, how the story should be followed the next day and, on big stories, for days to come.

I believed, as I was taught in the early 1970s at the University of Missouri, that the best newsrooms not only covered the news but uncovered it, that they took important stories and explored all of the “angles” they presented so that readers might recognize their importance and, sometimes, clamor for change.

I still believe this. But though this world of news hasn’t disappeared (a Pulitzer Prize winning New York Times series on cell phones and driving comes to mind, as does the best coverage of the BP spill), it has long been in retreat.  We post and repost updates by the minute — 9:42, 9:48, 9:57 — as if each missed tick of the clock somehow will deprive the world of knowledge.  We definitively explain the why of a story before we really have a clue of the what.  And truly major stories — domestic spying, for example — lose traction and interest, it seems, even before the ink on the page has dried.

No, not only the flight of ads has diminished the printed world of news. The hunger for anything written by anyone online has done so as well.  And even at the most respected news outlets, we measure quality not in content but in “hits.”  (The Christian Science Monitor, The Times reports today,  sends a daily message to staff listing the number of page views of every article and many top newspapers list their “Top 10.”)

Too often in such a “news” environment, pandering to readers rules the day.

I should hasten to add here that I’m not an elitist. I love to blog. I like the authenticity of the blogger’s voice. I’m guilty of sharing my own half-baked thoughts.  But I have no illusion that blogging can or will replace real news — reported deeply, placed in context, analyzed by those who have devoted 50 hours a week for years to gaining expertise in a subject or field.

Democracy needs that kind of news. But when its best purveyors themselves are overwhelmed by the buzz of the hour and minute, when the dis of the day becomes the discussion of the Sunday Week in Review, I can only wonder what else I’m missing.

I hope, as I re-immerse myself in American culture after our brief respite, I can remember what the French have built one of the world’s most genteel cultures around: The notion that less offers more, that life — and news — don’t depend on how much you do or how much you absorb, but how deeply and how well.

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AIX-EN-PROVENCE, France — Even in this country of wine and romance, a little practical sense can make your vacation a lot more fun.  Or, to put it another way, why drop $4 on a Coke when you can save it for a concert or great meal instead?

I hope my earlier posts (scroll down on this blog) have given you a sense of the personality and poetry of Provence. This one is for the purely practically minded.  Here are some tips on making your money go further:

1. When you sit down for a meal or glass of wine, ask for a “carafe d’eau.”  That’s a pitcher of tap water, and it’s free.  If you ask for a bottle of water, you’ll pay several dollars, whether it’s carbonated or flat.  And Cokes do cost nearly $4 at most cafes, the same, if not more, than as a glass of house wine.  The heat of summer builds a big thirst here, and the cost of all those carbonated drinks can add up.

2. Whether you’re eating a big meal at midday or in the evening, consider the plat du jour. It’s often the freshest dish on the menu and it’s considerably less money and considerably better on your waistline than the three-course menus.

3. If you’re planning on a big evening spread, buy your own bread and cheese at lunch. French cheese is divine. The bread is baked daily. Buy a baquette and a slap of something like tome, our favorite cheese (it comes in multiple varieties), and you’ve got a hearty lunch in minutes, complemented perhaps by a plump tomato or whatever fruit is freshest in the region.  You’ll also have spent about $10 for two, perhaps 40 percent what you’d pay for a couple of large salads in a restaurant.

4. Don’t eat breakfast in hotels. There, you’ll routinely be charged $12 to $14 for coffee, juice, bread and jam. If instead, you go to an outdoor cafe, you can get a yummy croissant oozing butter and and an espresso for about $3.

5. Speaking of coffee, that espresso costs less than half of an American coffee (with cream).  We’ve found that French espresso is, in any case, not just strong, but sweeter and tastier than what you’ll get in the States with the same order.

6. Get regional wine by the pitcher rather than buying by the bottle. Unless you’re a serious wine snob, the wine, typically from the local wine cooperatives, that is served in the open carafes tastes just fine. We found it comparatively better, for example, than what you’d pick up at your local liquor store for about $8 or $10 a bottle.  It usually costs less than half the cheapest bottle on the menu.

7. If you go the marketplace, don’t buy at the first stall. Comparison shop. Whether buying cheese for lunch or apricots straight from the tree, prices vary substantially. (If you stay somewhere for awhile, as we did in Aix-en-Provence in 2007, you’ll soon zero in on your favorite vendors.)

8. If you are traveling around France, look for hotels that bear the logo of Logis de France.  Most of these seem to be two-star hotels, clean, comfortable and typically — even in tourist areas — under $100 a night, sometimes substantially under.

9. Use your feet. Walking is the best way to see France’s towns and villages.

10. OK, everyone needs to splurge sometimes. These were our two favorite splurges:

a. For Provencal food, make a lunchtime reservation at La Closerie in Ansouis, about an hour from Aix-en-Provence. This charming restaurant prepares the best food we’ve eaten — anywhere. Yes, ANYWHERE. At lunch, a three-course meal costs $60 for two minus whatever you choose to drink. The quality of that meal rivals the $200 meal we ate a decade ago in New York for Kathy’s 50th birthday. It’s that good. We’ve eaten at La Closerie twice, once three years ago, again last week. Both times it was simply amazing. This time the noontime meal was a rabbit terrine, a cut of lamb on a bed of polenta, and a strawberry soup for dessert. The presentation matched to food. And even in the heat of July, the setting was shaded and cool enough to relax and enjoy.

b. Want to stay in a Provencal Mas or farmhouse?  We would recommend Mas Perreal, just outside St. Saturnin-les-Apt. Beautiful rooms, sumptuous breakfasts and a pool on the fringe of vineyards and beside several shade trees. The place is run by Kevin, an American, and his French wife Elisabeth. They are low-key and casual, but they also have a clear idea of how to make guests comfortable at a first-class bed and breakfast. At about $170 a night, however, the Mas is a splurge.

Bon voyage.

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AIX-EN-PROVENCE, France — The only bad thing about vacations is that they eventually end. But what better grand finale than Bastille Day, France’s July 4, complete with a real-life general, an oompah band,  20 minutes of fireworks set to classical music, and a disco-pop-rock orchestra  accompanied by go-go girls gyrating beneath the statue of King Rene,  who led Provence in the 15h century.

You really had to be there.

The official festivities began at 5 p.m. with a few speeches and a “parade,” consisting of a few fire trucks; the general, who was driven off in a small truck he climbed into on portable steps wheeled to its side,  and several dozen well-armed, marching representatives of the French military.

An upbeat old-fashioned band, dressed  in white and wearing straw hats, sat nearby, adding a bit of luster. It continued to play after the pomp and circumstance had ended — or at least tried.

By then it was 6:15 p.m.  Up the street, by the statue,  the evening’s rock band (Orchestre XL, according to the logo on its trucks) was setting up, its horn players blasting  wicked riffs through powerful amplifiers.  Down the street, city workers banged around disassembling the metal gates put up for crowd control.  And through the clatter and cacaphony, the band played on.

“Who’s in charge here?” Kathy asked.

This being the South of France, the answer seemed pretty obvious: No one discernible.

Let’s put it this way. The British form neat queues and wait patiently. American lines are somewhat less orderly. In France, whether approaching a ski lift or a concert hall, people form flying wedges that somehow resolve themselves with a certain vigilant grace.

The same could be said of the clashing bands, which eventually took turns.

At 10 p.m., the fireworks began, interspersing the usual sizzles and starbursts with quiet arcs of silver intersecting in the sky to a Strauss waltz. The yellow lab beside us shrank from the noise. So when the last glitter fell from the sky, his owner let him dive into one of the city’s fountains in the middle of its much-photographed, tree-lined Cours Mirabeau.

And then Orchestre XL got down to business: five horns (three saxes, trumpet and trombone), five singers, bass, guitarist, synthesizer keyboardist, drummer …. and two dancers.

First the dancers appeared fully clothed in white, angel wings aflutter through a most unusual rendition of the theme song for the musical Mamma Mia.

Next, as the music turned to a harder-edged rock, they appeared in black leather, scooped to the waist in the back and leaving awfully little to the imagination in the front. As the light show flashed even brighter and smoke rose from the floor of the three-level stage, they re-appeared, this time slmost as scantily clad as the dancers in Paris’ infamous Moulin Rouge (just before they dive into the tank with the snakes, but that’s a story from long ago).

Orchestre XL’s program was itself  … eclectic. First, lots of disco (“burnin’). Then atonal rock (‘90s, I think).  Then  the schmaltzy standby Volare, kicked off a more Spanish than Italian medley, during which one of the dancers walked onstage dressed as a matador. Later, when the lead singer launched into a song whose chorus seemed to start with “in America,”  both were back, this time bedecked in American flag bathing suits, caps and capes.

The French don’t much like American politics. But they clearly love our culture — even if the version of it celebrated here is a bit dated.  At one point, much of the crowd joined in the Bus Stop, a line dance we did with friends at New Year’s Eve parties at my parents’ Vermont house a long, long time ago.

Response singing was big, too, last night, though it was sometimes difficult to decipher, what with the challenges of language as the band sang one American song after another (one audience response was, “I say the la,” which my intrepid wife interprets as “I see the light.”)

We tired after awhile and sat down on a bench next to a pleasant-looking woman about our age. That’s when Kathy felt hot breath on her arm. Something touched her. She turned abruptly to discover that the woman’s French mop (a little dog with lots of hair drooping over its eyes) had taken a liking to her and rested a paw on her leg.

Ah, yes. All vacations must end. At 12:40, Kathy bade dog and owner goodnight. We lingered for a few more songs and  headed to our hotel, just as the band launched into “we will, we will rock you.”

I can’t imagine what came next.

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LOURMARIN, France — Kathy was buying a pretty pair of amethyst earrings at an open market here when my cell phone rang.  It was our daughter Betsy with an update on Dylan, our grandson, just 10 days old, whom we’ll meet as soon as we arrive home.

I walked a few steps away, but soon Kathy, in faltering French, was engaged in an animated discussion with the jeweler. When Kathy took the phone a few minutes later she told Betsy the woman, who spoke no English, wanted to know all about Dylan.  When it came time to pay, she insisted on selling the earrings for 15 euros rather than 18, the discount her contribution to the celebration of Dylan’s birth.

Such small acts of generosity and kindness seem commonplace in the French countryside. Lourmarin is, in fact, no modest village. It is a tony town, a place where one might plop down a few mil for a restored mas, or farmhouse, out of town, a place that is the second French home of author Peter Mayle, who became a celebrity and, to some, a villain, in these parts when he wrote his widely read book, “A Year in Provence.”  Yet there seems little of the snootiness one might find in Cannes or Nice, France, or, for that matter, Aspen, Colo., or Nantucket Island off Massachusetts.

Last night, out of cash, we went to the only ATM machine in town. I was about to put in my card when the owner of a rare book store next door waved a finger and warned me it was broken. Somehow money had gotten jammed on the way out. The closest place to draw money? Cadenet, 5 kilometers away. But a short drive surely beat the misery of getting my debit card stuck in the machine. It would have been easy for the book seller to ignore us.

This morning we went into the local tabac to buy the Internatioaal Herald Tribune.  We left and then returned — not, once, but three more times. First, we decided to buy an address book and calendar with beautiful photos of Provence. Then, after leaving again, we returned to buy two more for our daughters. Then, after leaving yet again, we returned to buy another one for my cousin. Each time, the young woman behind the counter asked if she could wrap the presents. And when we left the last time she handed us a large refrigerator magnet of Lourmarin that likely sold for $3 or $4.

“So you’ll remember,” she said.

I confess that I was wary coming to this town because of its affluence and the notoriety that comes with having Peter Mayle (and, once upon a time, author Albert Camus) as a resident.  But I should have visited first and made judgments later. Nor do I believe friendliness we’ve witnessed is a show for tourists.

At Cafe Gaby, where I interviewed Mayle three years ago for the Christian Science Monitor, locals greet each other with a peck on each cheek. It’s a great place for people watching so, after eating a light dinner there last night, we returned for coffee this morning.  At the table next to us was a well-dressed and clearly well-heeled French couple reading the morning  paper.  As they stood to leave, two men in overalls, street cleaners, were washing down the square in front of the cafe. The affluent Frenchman stopped to embrace each, giving each a peck on the left cheek and then the right.

OK, this is France. But how many Americans you know stop to give their garbage man a hug?

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

Many good stories end where they began. So it seems only right that our French vacation should “bookend” back to Provence.

It is a region we love, the place we chose to come for our five month sabbatical in 2007.

Then, we lived just outside the stylish and graceful city of Aix-en-Provence, a place of courtyards and outdoor cafes,  language schools and universities, shoe stores and sprawling thrice-weekly markets.

To most, however, at least those who have read Peter Mayle’s “A Year in Provence,” this region defines itself not through its cities, but  through the towns and villages of the Luberon Mountains and the proud, friendly and eccentric people who live in them.

In truth, in these mountains made famous by Mayle, there are two distinctly different Provences today, particularly during the height of the tourist season.  Most Americans and Brits throng to the dramatic mountain towns of Gordes or Roussillon or the villages of Menerbes, where Mayle once lived, or Lourmarin, where he lives today. But as charming  as these towns can be, they are chockoblock with gift shops and art galleries and over-run with tourists come summer.

Many French tourists head elsewhere,  to the smaller, quieter villages of the eastern Luberon, places such as Viens or Saignon, which lack nothing of the natural beauty, drama or charm of the more popular western destinations, but have few of the other tourist trappings — the shops, three-star hotels or quiant (read expensive) cafes that have made the western Luberon villages a larger but less authentic draw.

We’ve been staying these last three days in a converted farmhouse, a “mas,” on the cusp of this Luberon divide, in a quiet village called St.-Saturnin-les-Apt, where all we hear from morning until night is the steady chirping of the “cigale,” the cicadas that, though an insect, come as close as one gets to Provence’s regional mascot. Mas Perreal sits in the midst of a vineyard. Its proprietors, he American, she French, serve enormous breakfasts and share rich knowledge of the region. And the people of nearby St. Sauternin is thoroughly French, patient with our wobbly language skills and as adept as anywhere else in serving reliably sumptuous meals (on Friday we had a dish of diced lamb wrapped in a red pepper along with the ratatouille, which is a traditionally Provencal dish. Tonight we had an entire fish, head and all with a pate of the country, quail I believe, as an appetizer).

It is hot here. Slow. A little sleepy. But the heat excepted, that’s fine by us. And cool mornings and long, late, breezy evenings take the edge off the scorching mid-day sun.

Yesterday we sat by the pool, read and napped. A big day. Today we took in the lavender fields and small towns to the east. Tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll gird for the tourist masses to the west.

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In Provence, there are three kinds of roads on the map.  Red roads are the superhighways, two lanes wide, but with a white center line dividing drivers going in opposite directions. Yellow roads still are wide enough for two cars, but rarely demarcate where they should be on the road. (There are no lines.)  As for the white, I call them white knuckle driving. And, as is Kathy’s penchant, that’s all we drove today. Make that, that’s all I drove today. She does the maps. I play chicken.  Or rather, I freeze and stop every few miles when two cars meet on a road that really is built for only one. It’s all part of the joy of traveling with my wife.

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Wealthy Americans name their sailboats and yachts. Wealthy French name their houses. We first realized this on sabbatical three years ago at Cap Ferrat on the Riviera, a place so affluent that when we visited in March only the workmen, chauffeurs and Rolls Royces inhabited the grounds of the estates there.  The houses near St. Saturnin are far more modest, but we climbed the hill of Perreal overlooking the valley this morning and noticed that here, too, the larger, gated houses sport names.  Some spoke of the produce of the region, such as Les Cerises, the cherries.  Some tried a bit of poetry, such as one called, roughly, “in the high wind.” But the biggest left use curious. It was called L’Evidence, the evidence.

We wondered if it was owned by a lawyer or judge or someone merely proud that he was filthy rich.

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No self-respecting tourist can leave France without touching on the topic of food.  My prowess as a chef ranges from eggs (boiled or scrambled) to les viandes (meats) grilled outside.  In other words, I’m no chef. But I do like to eat. So I can tell you with some authority that in France there are three kinds of food: Food that is OK, usually found at sidewalk bars that commandeer tourists with cheap and largely tasteless plats du jour (plates of the day);  very good food, found with a little care in cities and larger towns and almost guaranteed in the country; and food that’s out of this world, that leaves you sighing, nose tiled slightly skyward to smell the aromatic fragrances wafting from the kitchen.

As we’ve moved from large towns to small, we’ve found more of the otherworldly, sometimes in small roadside cafes that have never found their way into anyone’s guidebook.  I assure you that I don’t try this at mid-day, but in the evening, if we down a good bottle of wine with this exceptional food a small ritual takes place three hours later as we leave the restaurant.  We find ourselves floating, a few feet off the ground,  as we back out the door,  telling madame or monsieur several times over  that the dinner was superb, wishing them a good evening, assuring them we’ll return soon and, finally, saying au revoir.