I'm quite sure I'm not supposed to enjoy the advances of an anonymous drunk, particularly when he's already "dans la jus," as they say, at 11 on a Thursday morning and he's speaking to me rather loudly across a parking lot. And there is just no doubt about his state since the wind coming from his direction is saturated and I smell stale red wine even before I hear him and realize he's addressing me. But what he lacks in discretion, he makes up for in poetry. "Did you know you are beautiful, madame?" he asks, as I pass on the way to the car carrying a basket of vegetables and olive oil from the Nyons market. "Yes, yes," he insists, "you are a woman of rare beauty. Rare beauty." My birthday is later this week. I'll take the compliment. I smile all the way to the edge of town.
Pictured here, my preferred tapenade vendors. Worth a special trip in to the market on Thursdays. Nyons is famous for anything olive -- olive oil, tapenade black and green, with garlic and without, olives cured in every fashion, in bags, bottles and boxes. Yum.
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