Sanary-sur-Mer

If your idea of maritime adventure involves clambering aboard a neon-lit booze cruise, think again. Cruising Sanary-sur-Mer's bay aboard a traditional Provencal pointu fishing boat-a colorful little vessel that stubbornly resists modernization-is delightfully retro, wonderfully slow, and pleasantly devoid of foam parties. As the morning mist lifts off the Mediterranean (around 8 a.m. is your sweet spot, when the water's glassy-calm and the day-trippers are still wrestling with espresso machines), your skipper-likely sporting a sun-weathered cap and precisely zero patience for touristy cliches-shares tales of smuggling intrigue, charming fishing mishaps, and perhaps a little salty gossip about the glittery yacht set down the coast. Book at least a few days ahead, hand over around 40 euros per person (consider it your contribution to keeping local traditions afloat), and bring sunscreen, water, and an appetite for salty air and sardonic commentary. And hey, even if you don't snap award-winning photos or catch fish, you'll have bragging rights for having traversed the gentle waves in a wooden relic of Provence's fishing heritage-because who doesn't secretly want a Hemingway-worthy adventure minus the hangover?

Get behind the wheel, roll down the windows, and brace yourself for a dramatic cliffside flirtation with oblivion along the legendary Route des Cretes. Perched precariously between postcard-perfect Cassis and the Mediterranean blue abyss, this drive is so stunning it's practically rude-an audacious display of limestone cliffs plunging recklessly to the sea, punctuated by hairpin turns that'll test your nerve (and your passengers' stomachs). Plan your escapade in the golden late afternoon, when the sun dips low, painting the cliffs amber and bathing sailors and fishermen below in poetic silhouettes. Budget for a tank of gas, a well-deserved glass of rose afterward, and perhaps a snack to steady the nerves; booking ahead isn't exactly necessary, but holding onto your sunglasses and camera definitely is. Although the roadway has tamed somewhat since its inception under Napoleon III's watchful gaze, the views remain deliciously untamed, raw, and slightly scandalous. Go for the sheer spine-tingling thrill, for the smug selfie opportunities, or at least do it for the bragging rights and the lasting satisfaction of casually dropping, "Oh, you've never teetered dramatically above the Cote d'Azur coastline at sunset? Pity."

If you're going to trek halfway across southern France chasing the notion of a purple field, it might as well be in Valensole, where lavender sprawls dramatically across the landscape like a particularly vibrant skin condition Mother Nature has proudly displayed since Roman times. Aim for early morning, when the golden sunrise turns these endlessly Instagrammable fields into something so vivid and fragrant you'll suspect you've stumbled into a Monet painting-or at the very least, someone's aggressively lavender-scented bath bomb exploded on the horizon. Book at least a month ahead to outfox the legions of tourist buses packed with selfie-stick wielding influencers, and budget around €50-€100 for a decent guided tour (unless riding shotgun with a local farmer in exchange for baguettes and strong opinions seems enticing). Don't forget water, sunblock, and allergy meds-because yeah, it's picturesque, but it's also pollen paradise. Even if the idea of tiptoeing through fragrant shrubs sounds unbearably quaint, do it anyway; you'll walk away convinced of lavender's mystical properties-or at least you'll earn bragging rights for surviving a place so idyllically French it feels fictional.