Winding through pines, the route that leads south bears striking resemblance to a Texas highway. Amongst scattered heads of cactus, the final stretch is lined with friendly reminders to remain patient, signs indicated we were in fact on the right track, due to arrive in Sainte Maxime in minutes time. The drive from Paris to the South of France, while no meager undertaking, can be made in a day by even the slowest of drivers, my husband included. With a week allotted to meander the alluring Cote d’Azure, we began our séjour au sud.

Oceanfront restaurants trim Sainte Maxime’s beaches where women lay like tapis, flipping their bodies for evenly sun-baked skin. Patrons enjoy the comfort of rented chair and umbrella sets or take in the scene while dining from a menu of freshly caught poisson. Served clinging to their shells, Moules Poulet are a richly delicious plat frequent on the cozy café menus. Drowning in creamy broth, they are paired with frites à volonté, unlimited French fries. While snaking through quaint downtown rues, shopping and browsing restaurant cartes, a noticeable price difference became evident. If you choose to dine en face de la mer, the cost of your meal is nearly doubled. Equally as charming is an outdoor table nestled into the action of centre ville where people watching provides a pleasant distraction.

By day, shop goods spill out into open air as vendors assemble street displays. Tablecloths hang draped above sets of matching napkins in vibrant stripes of cicadas, olives and sprigs of lavender. While acquiring souvenirs in the diverse market, we collected the contents for a picnic to tote away to the beach. An afternoon spent wandering the city was complimented with a plunge into the ocean as the temperature continued to rise. Though the water was mildly polluted, the flock of August vacationers took little notice.

The following day, we escaped the city in a two-hour jaunt as the highway delivered us to the mouth of Europe’s Grand Canyon, the Gorges du Verdon. Anxious to gaze into its depths, we passed quickly through roadside villages until encountering Aiguines. The colorfully capped turrets of an oversized private chateau painted a whimsical backdrop for the dejeuner we took on a sun-drenched café patio. Beneath pastel storefronts, lavender sachets shared table display space with jars of olives and bouquets of herbs. After sampling several varieties of local honey offered by the beekeeper himself, we parted with a jar of miel de romarin and one tinged with Province’s signature, lavender.

In crossing the highest bridge in Europe, we piled out to glimpse over the railing down into the rocky gorge below. Emphasizing the distance with a graceful swan dive toward the valley floor, an elastic bungee line separated a thrill seeker from untimely death. My stomach flipped in witnessing each of several plunges as the long fall was abruptly broken with the snap of an unfurling line come taut.

Halfway through, we descended on the man-made lake that rests between the gorge’s lips. Neglecting the uninviting terrain of a rocky beach, we negotiated the rental of a paddleboat. As river fed into canyon, we jumped ship stealing the time to plunge from boulders and admire the perspective from below.

Point Sublime, among other viewpoints, offered a panorama where milky green waters cut through the base of the canyon. We traversed the highway circuit of the gorge by car in roughly four hours, though kayaking would have been a more agreeable mode of transport. Resting through the night in one of the scattered hotels or camps along the route would have permitted the time to spend all daylight hours canyoneering.

By nightfall we found ourselves back inside city limits freshening up for a ferry ride across the bay to St-Tropez. Making our entry by port, we were greeted by the oversized boats that had jockeyed for prime docking on the wharf. There, rich and scantily clad socialites sipped on champagne, occasionally casting their glance down from the stage set atop their yacht decks. Amidst the flocks of pedestrians in circulation below, envious social climbers perched ashore awaiting an invitation to cross over to the other side of the spectacle.

In a city where young vixen prowl the streets in hot pants offering less coverage than many a bikini bottom of mine, appearance is everything. Flip through a glossy paged French goss mag and you’ll undoubtedly encounter a headline bearing the city’s name like a status symbol. Starlet Brigette Bardot was St-Tropez’s champion transforming the sleepy fishing village into a hedonistic playground. By night, the charm was evident in lamp-lit quarters, windows filled with couture or photography and art, depending on the street.

Parting from the place to see and be seen left me with a feeling of distaste. As witness to the flagrant extravagance, my role was that of an envious spectator. Though, when viewed with a critical eye, a lifestyle never to be mine lost its appeal the moment our boat left the dock, and I escaped the charade.

The Saintes, Maxime and Tropez, are novel cities to visit, offering a taste of the glamour that envelops the Cote d’Azur. In comparison, the neighboring countryside of the Gorges du Verdon, shared with Province, presents a more sauvage scene. By diversifying travel, tempering urban environments with open expanses, every experience becomes more gratifying.