“One year they had a bathtub, and the judges threw barrels of sudsy water on the driver at the finish line. Now, isn’t that sweet,” Claudine said as Super Papa came down at a slow and careful speed in something like a miniature wagon train, a little cart hooked on behind his caisse, three little kids buckled snugly into it. We knew he was Super Papa from his hand-scrawled T-shirt and a cardboard sign, where the title was followed by the carefully printed names of the children.

“How disappointing,” Claudine said at the end. “It was much more creative last year.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, one guy came down with a whole little café. The parasol came off his table, though.” While I tried, baffled, to imagine a café-car, we went back down the hill to find all the contestants being hooked on to a long rope behind an SUV to be towed back up the hill for another go.

We wandered over toward the village café. Games for a pétanque tournament covered every inch of dirt that could even possibly be imagined flat, and I learned quickly to keep a sharp watch for flying metal balls when turning any corner. Conscious of Sébastien’s family, I resisted riding the pink cow on the country-fair carousel.

On the café terrace, a serious discussion was under way. Subtly jerked chins indicated a World War II veteran in pink shirt and tie who was sporting a gray beret and a cane and hanging around over by some trees, watching the goings-on. The stalling Renault’s driver braced firmly over his glass at the café. “He’s a spy,” he said tensely. “I know he’s a spy. He’s at every single last festival! Standing around watching everybody!”

Claudine, who seemed to be getting over my inability to mix a salad, caught my eyes, her own brimming with humor. It occurred to me that she might have been joking about the salad.

“What’s the population of this village?” I whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know, about a hundred and fifty people.”

I looked around at the pétanque matches, the soapboxes being hauled uphill, and the little houses of golden stone. “They have a big spy problem, do they?”

If they didn’t, they had too much local pride to admit it. Besides, Provence was famous for its Résistance efforts during World War II, when spies had been a serious danger even in villages like this, and apparently old habits die hard. The older drivers plunged into a debate over the pink-shirted gentleman’s spy status with heated seriousness. Feeling unqualified for such a high-level discussion, I walked across the little stone bridge above the old laundry spot, and the spy called out to me a flowery compliment on what a pleasure it was to see such a beautiful, charming young lady at one of their festivals.