We landed in Nice on a Tuesday afternoon. The light was golden, the sea endless. I remember thinking: Maybe this will be the trip we tell our grandkids about. Our Airbnb was a small apartment near the port. Two flights up, no elevator. The host was polite but rushed. She handed us the keys and warned, “Keep the shutters closed at night. Don't open for anyone you don’t know.” Odd, but we were too tired to question it. The first night, we walked to the old town for dinner. It was beautiful—lanterns, street musicians, the smell of grilled fish. But walking back, we got lost. A group of young men followed us for two blocks. Laughing too loud, too close. When I stopped to tie my shoe, they stopped too. My wife whispered, “Let’s just get inside.” We didn’t go out after dark again. Day two, we took the bus to a lavender field tour. It looked nothing like the brochure. Most of the fields had already been harvested. The driver yelled at two older women for asking about restrooms. At the café, I asked for tap water. The waitress sighed and pointed to a €5 bottle. By day four, the mood had shifted. We kept the shutters closed. We ate in. We whispered. It’s hard to explain to people back home. They show us photos of their Provence trips—smiling, sunlit, “so magical.” Maybe it was. For them. Maybe they went in 2010. But for us? We came for quiet beauty. We left with tension headaches and a €180 phone bill from trying to rebook an earlier flight. Next time we want lavender, we’ll plant it ourselves. In our own yard. Where we can sleep at night.