Naturally we started our trip off with a glass of wine at lunch. After all, it was too late for breakfast… Deux verres de vin rouge – um, uh — pas sec. Un peu… Finally I just threw my hands in the air and laughed. I meant well but it seemed unfair to make our poor waiter suffer for my lack of versatility with the language. Our waiter obliged with two glasses of wine and a hearty, Welcome to Provence!

Our first morning, Vaccination Card in hand, we left to explore Pernes-les-Fontaines, a 10-minute walk from our cozy, CDC-treated, 100-year-old, two-story farmhouse we had come to call home for two weeks. We had to move to the curb much more often to accommodate bicyclists than cars.

How different our Provence adventure was from the usual prescribed schedule offered by most tour companies. Such is the beauty of UNTOURS which puts you up in unusual accommodations in multiple cities in more than a dozen European countries – perhaps a castle, in a vineyard, or a delightful old house like ours to live like a local. Untours provides a car, inundates you with information, connects you with a local contact to answer questions, and sets you off to see what you want to see when you want to see it. Unencumbered by anyone else’s set schedule or preferences, it’s a much more socially distanced option than a tour bus.

Yes, there is a supermarket near Pernes, known for the 41 fountains which constitute its name (although none operational due to water as a precious commodity), but it’s so much more French to stop at the individual butcher, baker, cheese shop, produce store to buy provisions – and so we very smugly did.

Expect to get lost everywhere – and savor the adventure of doing so. No one has ever been inextricably lost, though the temptation to be so is great as you traverse streets spanning multiple centuries in an afternoon’s outing.

One day after building up a great thirst, we stopped for lunch and ordered a beer. When I balked at the choice of either Heinekens or Corona (Ou est les bieres Francaise?), I received a stern rebuke: We are French; we drink wine. Lesson learned.

Second surprise: how few people actually spoke any English, though very eager to help nonetheless. And in Covid September, when we were there, that was true for the tourists as well.

Our first Hill Town (which come by their name honestly), of which there are more than a dozen within an hour’s drive of Pernes, was Gordes, one of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. As it first comes into view, perched high upon a hill (go figure!) – enveloped by stone walls overlooking stone buildings overlooking vast vineyards – you do not question that designation.

As much as I imagined anything called a Hill Town to be quaint and picturesque, I was not prepared for the exhilaration I felt upon entering. The awe at the walled surroundings, the sense of being transformed back to the 11th century, views that demand head-shaking wonderment, precarious walkways and narrow side streets whose sides you can touch with outstretched arms – all of which made it easy to dismiss the many cafes, shops and tourists which also abound. Take time to visit the 11th century Abbey. Its most recent renovations? The 18th century.

From Gordes, it’s an easy drive to Roussillion, a town shrouded in varying shades of ochre. Sort of a combination of red, maroon, orange, terra cotta and yellow. Who knew there were so many shades of a color I heretofore couldn’t have given a name to? Dramatic views of ochre cliffs give the town its unique coloration. Oh yes, it also has stone buildings.

The next town was more a nostalgic stop than anything else – that and the dozens of vineyards we passed enroute. Menerbes, the home town of Peter Mayle, author of the renowned My Year in Provence, which admittedly I wish I had read after the trip rather than before so that I could have related even more to his many Provincial adventures, is another of the 100 Most Beautiful Villages in France. The canopied entrance alone suggests that. And, of course, there is the de rigueur enthralling view.

Menerbes is quieter, more subdued than Gordes with wider streets. While dating back to the 14th century, there is less a visceral sense of the medieval influence. All of which contributed to its own personality and livable charm – and the fact that this is where Mr. Mayle did his shopping. A small garden for sitting and reflecting beckoned. This being our third hill town – hill being the operative word – we welcomed it! Just when we thought we had seen the most charming village, we came by another. Best to withhold judgment on charm quotients…

When visiting said charming small towns – which is mostly what you want to do – be sure to park in the lots outside of town. Don’t even think about driving in the towns themselves unless you’re on a bike. We did – not by choice – and not until we finally found a way out of the one way, very narrow miasma of traffic did our stomachs return to their designated place in our bodies.

A trip to the Saturday morning market in Pernes is – well, a trip itself. Unending supplies of flowers, fruit, furniture, food; also clothes, shoes, crafts, purses, jewelry, household items. And especially wine, cheeses and olives – and more varieties of ham than all the deli meats combined at a supermarket at home. And the people are as varied as are the perishables.

Sunday brought us back into town – this time to a ghost village. Hard to believe the two days co-exist within the same town. So much for our plan for afternoon wine at a café. But as we had learned, whatever the village, it’s always a good idea to walk off the main square to see where the people really live. So we found ourselves in a residential area, perusing 13th-century corridors with the sounds of everyday life emanating from apartment windows. A welcome sense of becoming acquainted with our hometown outside its more touristy main square. And a reminder that there was more life to the ghost town than we initially thought. Some time later, when visiting a favorite restaurant, our waiter smilingly led us to your usual table. Voila, we belonged. Thank you, Untours.

Avignon was a slightly different experience than our beloved Hill Towns. A big walled city from the 14th century. Here the operative word is big. Massive medieval monuments dominate the square – churches, palaces, municipal buildings, amphitheatres – dwarfing those straining their necks to take them all in. Take especial note of the Palais de la Pape because yes, Avignon was the center of the papacy in the early 14th century before it permanently moved back to Rome.

As always, the city center is a combination of ancient buildings and modern shops and everywhere the city walls, built three centuries before the first settlement in America. The past somehow feels both overwhelming and imminently present.

As my husband’s eyes were beginning to glaze over at the thought of another Hill Town, we mixed up our days with a local hike, a day of errands and laundry, a visit to a Cezanne and Kandinsky exhibit at a museum in Les Baux (Can you handle yet another Most Beautiful Village?), and a festival in St. Remy (there is probably a festival every day somewhere in Provence…), a week-long homage to bulls in several iterations. At the bull ring, more than a dozen grown men were chasing after the bull – or maybe it was the other way around. It was a bizarre sport and I didn’t know whom I was supposed to root for – but it definitely made me better appreciate American football.

Fortunately there was also a bonus stop to view extensive Roman ruins dating back to the third century and a street adorned with reproductions of Van Gogh’s letters and paintings from when he lived in St. Remy – there is always a bonus in Provence.

At lunch in St. Remy, we sat at a table for two and ordered a steak to share. They then moved us to a larger one. Porquoi? It was needed to accommodate the size of the steak. Provence is also full of surprises.

Another memorable meal? Harder to name one that wasn’t. But this one a destination multi-course luncheon at an imposing hilltop chateau – Le Domaine du Castellas in Sivergues. If with a novice gear-shift driver (my husband), harrowing roads competed with breath-taking scenery, if you dared take your eyes off the road long enough to look at it. Sheer terror might overcome appreciation of your surroundings but these very surroundings and the narrow, winding hill towns that inhabit them are the very reason you come to Provence. Fortunately, we didn’t come upon a car going the other way – we’d still be there trying to figure out who could pass by where…. And the roosters and goats with whom we ended up sharing our outdoor repast – some of whom at other times might actually show up on the menu themselves – help mitigate the afore-mentioned terror.

All the more reason to appreciate picking up a fresh roasted chicken from the market, wave to shopkeepers we had befriended, sip yet another glass of wine and dine al fresco at our arbor-covered, garden-enclosed picnic table, contemplating tomorrow’s adventures. A perfect way to end the day. Yet one more reason to be thankful for Untour’s unique approach to travel. For more information, contact www.Untours.com.

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“The professional art dealer is a profession that only makes sense if you do it with your heart,” explains Angela Rosengart, as she leads me through the ground floor of the collection that bears her name. She wears a pink sweater highlighted by a necklace of gold-colored pedants. Her silvery hair is tied back tight around her head. Speaking from half a century of art acquisitions, she continues, adding that a dealer shouldn’t get too attached to the paintings. If that happens, you’re in trouble, since you might find it difficult to sell them and maintain the business.

Angela is the daughter of Siegfried Rosengart, who passed away in 1985 after a lucrative career as one of the 20th century’s most distinguished art dealers. Based in Lucerne, Switzerland, he and Angela operated the business together for decades, often purchasing works for their own personal appreciation rather than for any intention of moving them as product. In the process of becoming close friends with Pablo Picasso, Marc Chagall, Paul Klee and nearly every high-profile European artist from the 1940s onward, the Rosengarts amassed an unrivaled collection. As dealers, they knew everyone.

After her father died, Angela eventually created a foundation to keep the paintings and make them publicly available. Since 2002, the Rosengart Collection, now over 300 works, has occupied the austere neoclassical building at Pilatusstrasse 10 in Lucerne, formerly the Swiss National Bank, just a few blocks from where the Reuss River flows into the lake. Upon acquiring the old place, Angela hired the Basel-based architect Roger Diener to transform the building into a museum-style structure with subtle lighting and wide spaces to enhance the viewer’s experience of the artwork. Much of the original ornamentation remains. Diener wanted a simple look. Nothing superfluous, nothing grandiose.

“He understood painting and he was fond of old buildings,” Angela tells me.

Picasso was a friend of the Rosengart family, so the entire ground floor features his works, mostly from the later decades. One moves through the work chronologically. For example, one gallery is primarily dedicated to the ’50s, while the next covers the early ’60s. There are many paintings of Picasso’s various lovers.

Picasso even famously sketched and painted Angela Rosengart herself. Another floor features David Douglas Duncan’s photographs of Picasso at work in his studio, including a few shots from October, 1963, with Angela sitting in a chair, as Picasso draws her.

“I had to sit there and endure the looks from his eyes,” Angela tells me. “The looks were like arrows.”

As we move through the rooms, I can feel the sheer vitality of Picasso’s output emanating from the walls of Pilatusstrasse 10. It’s like stepping into his very own studio. For example, as we turn a corner, Angela leads me into another space featuring some of Picasso’s etchings from 1968.

“He did something like 347 etchings that year,” she explains. “He would complete one after the other.”

Nothing beats exploring a three-story art collection, guided by the benefactress herself. I’m almost star-struck. It’s hard to speak. Yet Angela is no rock star. During my tour, tourists filter through and ask the inevitable vacuous question: Which painting is your favorite? But Angela says there’s no way to answer. It changes every day. This is also how writers respond when readers pry into which story, or book, or column is the most favorite one, a question no writer can answer, except to say, “That’s like asking which one of your children is the most favorite one.” So I get it.

With the utmost of humility, Angela won’t even refer to the works as a collection. Instead, she repeats over and over that she “simply has beautiful pictures.”

Aside from Picasso, the beautiful pictures include works by Paul Klee, Matisse, Monet, Kandinsky, Leger, Braque, Seurat, Renoir and Cezanne. With even more humility, Angela reiterates that the entire “collection” happened by accident. She and her father never planned to present them as a “collection” of any sort.

“The paintings were acquired over the years and we just didn’t want to part with them,” she admits.

In fact, her father never even planned to be an art dealer in the first place. That was likewise accidental. Initially, Siegfried served as general manager of the Lucerne branch of the Munich-based Thannhauser Gallery before taking over the gallery himself in 1937. After that, he operated the business as sole owner under his own name. His life just unfolded in such a way that he became a world-renowned dealer and agent.

Angela grew up with it all. At age 17, she purchased her first work, a piece from the Paul Klee estate. She paid fifty Swiss Francs, one month’s salary at that time, for a piece titled Little X. The piece now adorns one wall in the museum.

Eventually Angela joined on as co-owner of the business and although the father and daughter made a living buying and selling works of art for decades, they often found themselves in a dilemma. In their hearts, they really didn’t want to get rid of anything. They developed a personal attachment to many of the works.

None of which could have been planned. Growing up, Angela never dreamed Pablo Picasso would eventually draw her likeness five times. He gave her all the drawings, a few of which also hang in the collection.

“I like to say I snuck into immortality through the back door,” she tells me, with a subtle grin.

I get the feeling she’s probably rattled off these lines before, but if I had received my own portraits directly from Picasso, I’d repeat myself a thousand times. I’d shout from the street corner. I’d run down to the bar and tell the story over and over.

Yet Angela doesn’t need to show off. She instead exudes an overflowing sense of gratitude, humility and a Zen-like serenity—all of which is infectious. As we stand there, tourists continue to filter through and pillory her with the same questions she’s been asked for decades. She rolls with it. There is no ego. In fact, it feels no different than a hostess introducing me to her family, the paintings being her kin, of course.

We then move into yet another room. Gracing one wall is the painting, Dancer II, by the Catalan master Joan Miro.

“He was a friend too,” Angela adds.

Finally, we descend into the basement, formerly the vault of the Swiss National Bank, now split into separate rooms dedicated entirely to the Swiss artist Paul Klee. Over 100 of Klee’s watercolors, drawings and paintings hang chronologically, providing tremendous insight into the evolution of his various styles and themes.

In the basement, the walls seem three feet thick. It cost $100,000 to break through one wall in order to divide up the space. The concrete floor is now covered with 100-year-old wood flooring that Diener discovered in an old home. The flooring gives the basement a homey feel.

“It has a new life,” Angela says.

Angela never married or had kids. She tells numerous visitors that the paintings are her children, a line I again sense she’s been forced to repeat many times.

Through Angela, I experience a living connection to some of the twentieth century’s most illustrious artists. If she indeed snuck into immortality through the back door, then I am now one trans-generational Kevin Bacon degree of separation from Picasso, Miro, Paul Klee and Chagall. Only in Lucerne could I say this. No matter what happens, Angela will live forever through this immaculate collection, an inspiration to anyone whose life has unfolded by accident.

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