Hello Provence!

The hero is sick.
An evil, brazen, shameless virus has sneaked in as a stowaway and uninvited guest, treacherously incapacitating the hero's immune system.

Therefore, I am seized by a coughing fit that is croaky, wheezy, and barking from the depths of my lungs, followed by several loud sneezes, spraying infectious aerosols from dreams of streets where deep red Côte du Rhône and dark green olive oil flow.

Fleeing from the heavy rain has brought us to Nyons. We are passing through some truffle capitals to visit a typical Provençal weekly market in the French olive center in the Drôme.

The RV parking spot is completely full by the time we arrive late in the evening, but we still find a gap for our vehicle at the edge of the free parking lot.
The maneuvering is closely and suspiciously watched by the Dutch neighbor. No, we are not the marauding Park4Night couple, and we position ourselves so that there is an escape route for everyone.

The radiant morning sun reveals an unobstructed view of the municipal public toilet, which is well-frequented even in the early hours of the day.
Friends report five-star-rated French restrooms, which motivates me to gather my own experiences in this travel category.

If the little light of the restroom across the way is green, the toilet is free. The interior is fully tiled and somewhat dated, and the toilet block isn’t completely fresh anymore. Now I’m inside, and outside the little red light is shining. Once the business is done, you leave the establishment and the door locks. The yellow light blinks. Now the entire interior is flooded with water and cleaned for the next usage.

For the speedy guys, there’s a stainless steel urinal next door, quick, effective, always ready for use. And it’s all free.
However, I deduct points for the not-so-floral odor.

Now off to the weekly market, which is spread across several small, lovely squares and various romantic little streets in Nyons.
The selection is overflowing. There are the ever-popular colorful market bags, colorful aprons, and warm winter slippers. There are tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, eggplants, zucchinis, potatoes - vegetables in abundance. Even larger is the selection of seasonal fruits in every color, with particularly tasty sweet, aromatic muscat grapes available at every corner.

Two Moroccan market vendors are loudly calling out their greens. In front of me in line, Madame is a bit offended because she is also asked by them if she speaks French. She looks like she stepped straight from the Champs-Élysée in Paris; you can't get more French than that. But the crowd of tourists from all over the world is large, so it’s understandable to misjudge someone.
They throw a few nectarines and apples into the bag for immediate consumption; I would have preferred the beautiful green cucumbers like Madame as a gift. But when the savvy charmer addresses me as Mademoiselle, my concerns are quickly calmed.

There are mountains of garlic and pyramids of onions, cheese made from raw cow, sheep, and goat milk. Around the corner, we smell the fish vendor, and at the next gate, there are fresh oysters. Herbs smell delightful and air-dried salami in all varieties is offered. And, of course, olives cannot be missed.
But beware: we have previously been sold blackened Spanish fruits as local delicacies in the French olive capital. But that won't happen to me today!

Unfortunately, the only sunny spot for the obligatory café au lait after the market stroll belongs to a tiny bakery. The croissants are probably fantastic, but the coffee is not. It’s extracted from a small pod machine by Madame and tastes best like stale feet. Even the hero grimaces, despite his taste buds currently functioning he can only barely breathe due to a cold.

He also won’t take care of himself at all! He refuses my aromatic, healing super herb tea made from hand-picked mint, thyme, and rosemary, and the miracle cough syrup from the French pharmacy. Thick wool socks, healthy sage lozenges, warm beer, hot mulled wine, strong grog, well-tempered wraps, and a strictly secret garlic-onion brew - every good intention is sadly rejected with a sniffle. The prepared ingredients are mistaken for the components of the planned Soupe à l'oignon, and he cooks them effortlessly into a spectacularly delicious meal, I must admit.

He only accepts the effervescent aspirin bomb to lighten the day a little, so that the Provençal atmosphere doesn’t completely go under in swollen eyes, a stuffed, dripping nose, and painful coughing fits.

By the way, I once again lose a bet that I won’t get infected with the virus because I am stuffed to the neck with all kinds of medications. Even the thickest mosquito ends up feeling blessed and dazed after a sample of my blood, heading to the travel spider's web, which is looking forward to a peaceful night with colorful dreams.

No, after three days my throat also hurts and my nose is dripping. Now I have to go back to Madame Pharmacie to restock on drugs. She knows me by now and places the mega pack on the counter as soon as I walk in...