When I set my mind on something, I have to make it happen. For this birthday, I wanted to embrace a slower, more effortless way of life—so off I went to the Alpes-Maritimes region. I’ll admit, it took me a few days to even memorize the name of the village I was heading to, despite speaking French. As my Instagram feed kept flooding with clips from that famous Adele concert on tap—an endless loop with no real beginning or end—I realized that my only real response to all that was exactly what I had planned for myself.

WHEN LANDSCAPES BECOME THERAPY

As our Uber drove towards the village of La Colle-sur-Loup, a thought crept in: Do real experiences still matter to us, or have we completely surrendered to the illusions fed to us by algorithms and marketing?

And then, as if someone had pulled me out of that mental spiral, the landscape began to change. In an instant, I was transported to the P-dimension (read: Provence). Greenery, pine trees, the scent of nature—like someone had sent me on a detox from modern life. To be honest, I also felt a moment of pure joy when I realized I was still my own sugar daddy (because, hey, the years are rolling in!).

My Booking.com find was now a reality: we were heading towards the village’s largest building, a former abbey. Compared to everything else I had seen before, this was a visual explosion. An imposing structure, a historical aura, and a medieval vibe made me feel like I had found my own little place under the sun. With a touch of ancient elegance and serene beauty, it was the perfect escape from the city. Looks like I’ve found my new rhythm.

At the entrance, I asked, “Do you need our passports?” Our host, Elodie, smiled, waved her hand dismissively, and said, “Oh, non!” And just like that, the formalities disappeared, and I slipped into pure zen mode.

This hotel, once known as Priory Canadel when it was still an abbey, traces its roots back to the 12th century. It was once home to monks from the Lérins Islands, later serving as a resting place for bishops on their church tours across the region. Now, it was my resting place. Perhaps now it makes more sense why my Instagram handle is Sveti Putnik.

The façade and details weren’t excessively polished during restoration; they retained their original charm and authenticity. And although I’m not “classically religious,” I still found myself thanking Saint Elizabeth in the 11th-century chapel—the first building I stepped into on this estate and the one dedicated to her.

The rooms were pure Provence—warm pastel tones and elegant furnishings creating a relaxed atmosphere. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting an incredible play of light—sometimes dim, other times almost blindingly bright. In short, these rooms had atmosphere. The bathrooms? Enormous. And as we like to say, they even have their own French balcony. Except, instead of an iron railing, there was a natural one—XXL cacti growing from the floor below, overlooking rolling green hills. That’s what showering in this hotel felt like

And of course—the pool! The perfect place to wash away stress. Every second spent in the water felt like I was absorbing the property’s Renaissance energy, like the most hydrating moisturizer ever.

Here, the cat is truly noble—and it lives in the café! I was thrilled to find out that LeChat Noble restaurant was inside the hotel.

Mornings here started with a perfect breakfast, made up of local specialties: honey, farm-fresh eggs, homemade jams, fresh bread, and croissants—all served with little stories about the products.

By nightfall, the restaurant transformed into an intimate dining space, filled with a sense of peace and the enjoyment of fine cuisine. The Noble team made me completely lose track of time (though perhaps that was thanks to the rosé, which seemed to have no end).

Once you finally learn the name of the village, it’s time to experience it. First on the list? Père Mozart, a small bistro “by the town hall.” Imagine everything you know about France, sprinkle in a bit of southern charm, and you’ll get this place.

In August, the village was nearly empty—but the bistro? Absolutely packed. No tables available? With my half-French, half-hand gestures, I explained that I needed to be part of this chaos of bliss.

Voilà!—a table materialized on the terrace within minutes. Wine with ice? YES. And suddenly, I realized—it wasn’t such a sin after all. A wave of relief washed over me. I think you can do whatever you want with wine, as long as it makes you happy. After all, that’s what wine is for.

The man who welcomed me was barefoot, walking across the stone pavement. Before long, I had kicked off my shoes too. That day, Mozart’s Dad wasn’t just a local gem—it was the place where my landscape therapy truly started to take effect.

When I found out there was a village nearby where Matisse, Picasso, and their crew created some of their masterpieces, I had to go. Saint-Paul was their “thinking hill” (and now, it’s a little bit mine too). This is definitely the IT village—the most famous lady in the region, but without the exhausting crowds and hoards of group tourists. The cruise ships may be close, but they’re safely at a distance. Sunlight, a soft breeze, and art galleries that practically lure you into conversations with the artists—that’s the essence of this magical place.

Normally, I love diving into the heart of villages like this, but this time, I craved a wider view. So, I chose Les Remparts restaurant. When you find yourself sitting on the Walls (remparts), overlooking both the azure sea and lush green mountains at the same time, I promise you—your breath will catch.

In life, there are always things to critique, and all of them can be forgiven. Here, I had nothing to forgive—everything was just right.

Strangely enough, I have to point out—wine here was cheaper than beer at that Munich mega-concert. Over there, lipstick might linger on the rim of a glass, but rarely does anyone actually wear it. What’s the point?

And so, that was the day I, it seems, was (re)born.

And yes, upon returning to reality, I dug my old French press out of storage.