Now the work begins

While the owners considered the offer and before siging the "compromis," or first contract, I had work to do. I spoke with the agent, Monsieur Dumond, to doublecheck all costs. I made sure the quoted price included all fees and taxes,since the VAT can add 19.6% to the cost of the house. I checked on agent's fees since real estate agents are allowed to charge whatever they like in France and fees can range from 4% to 10% of the 'net' property price. In addition, there is the fee for the notaire, the government official who oversees the sale, and this person can charge from 2.5% to 8% of the sale price. I asked to see the plans for the property and made sure I had all the necessary documents to present at signing -- my passport, proof of divorce, birth certificate, bank statements. FrenchEntree.com once again provided useful pointers in reviewing all costs. I began searching for someone who spoke English and French to do a separate, independent inspection of the house. And then I moved into the only B&B in the village for a brief taste of village life.

My arrival coincided with the naming of the village streets. Until then, the address for all houses had simply been "au village" or "Dit, Le Village." Since it had been roughly 700 years from founding to naming the streets, I figured numbering the houses was probably some years, or centuries, off. Still, since no one seemed to know the address of the house I planned to buy -- not the agent, not the owners, not the neighbor next door -- I stopped by City Hall to check on the address and bumped into Madame Le Maire. Just the woman I wanted to see.

Finding out about the town was as important as finding out about the house. The village assets were obvious, but what were the problems? Who better to ask than the mayor?

Madame Le Maire, with steel-gray hair wearing a strawberry red sweater, gray slacks and sensible shoes, welcomed me to town. She noted the flood of Americans now in the area -- none in the village but as many as four in the outlying countryside in summers. When I asked her to tell me what problems the village faced, she conferred quietly with her secretary at some length and then the secretary replied: "les gosse."

"The kids? What's wrong with the kids?" I asked, imagining vandalism, social diseases, drinking and drugs. Like back home.

"Noise," she replied, quite irate. "They just make so much noise in the streets all afternoon. It is terrible."

Looking quite solemn, the mayor agreed, and then added another one: "le parking." She thought cars should stop parking in town and remain on the village periphery. And, no, there were no plans to number the houses. My street was to be called Le Croissiere.

Over the next two days, I visted with a Belgian-British family who owned a small house not far from mine that they used each summer. I spoke with the Portuguese proprietress of my B&B, who noted a slight tendency among villagers to be argumentative and passionate about city politics. The mayor, it turned out, was rather controversial, considered too independent and too bold. I met Dominque, the village weaver, and one or two elderly ladies resting under the Plane trees beside the fountain on the Place. And from my informal survey, I gathered the two great challenges facing the town were "too much sun" and "too much wind." Now these were problems I could live with.

A home in Provence

I never buy the first pair of shoes I try on. But after trying on a dozen pair,I sometimes find the first pair fit best.

After touring 35 houses over three weeks across Languedoc and Provence, I returned to the second one I'd seen. I'd known it was the house for me even before the trip. From the first time I spotted it online, there was something different about it, something that resonated in a way that others didn't. So, after a second visit to be sure, and a third visit with my savvy French friends who confirmed the choice, I made an offer on a maison de village in a tiny hamlet of 120 homes.

From the village, 50 minutes north of Avignon and 9 kilometers outside Vaison-la-Romaine, you can see for miles down a vine-filled valley reminiscent of Tuscany. It was this view that drew the Knights of the Templar to establish a commanderie there in the 12th century, but it was the wine-making in the valley below that has kept a village there ever since.

The house, a three-story stone cottage with rose-colored shutters, was built in 1830 a few steps from remnants of the original medieval wall. It wasn't a grand house, I'd seen better. It had no garden, although the roof terrace was private and nice. And I'd have to be creative in defining a space to eat since there was no formal dining room and the kitchen was small. But the three bedrooms were large and bright, the fireplaces all working, and rooms painted the lovliest shades of lavender, pink and green. There was space to create two more bedrooms and a second bath, if needed, and it was easy to picture my family there, and visiting friends and small parties.

In the end,of course,the decision was less about the particulars of the house than the particulars of my heart. Walking from the village down the hill and through an orchard of ancient olive trees, the wind blowing across miles of thyme, fennel and vines, I knew the search was over. I was home. The offer went in the next day.