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You should try it.'” After Peter Mayle, no doubt barefoot by the pool, typed these
words in his first novel Hotel Pastis, the world took a map in hand. They had
already taken note when his chronicles A Year in Provence and Toujours
painted a delicious picture of backcountry sunshine, copious feasts,
and cartoonishly droll local rustics; now they had directions to get there. They
came. They climbed over Mayle's hedges for autographs. They built pink-and-
yellow houses, booked ...