On a sunny morning last summer, I got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle in Paris with three new rolls of film, two new bikinis, and a new pair of linen pants in my bag. I had been preparing for months. I met Rupert at the airport, like in the movies.

The sun was beating and cars were honking as our suitcases rattled along the cobblestone to our Airbnb. The stairs to the apartment slanted quaintly as if it was none of our business how old they were. The apartment was a bit small—the studio held not much more than a futon, a sink, and a two-foot by two-foot shower. But it was all we needed.

That evening we had drinks at a café and climbed the steps of the Sacre Coeur to watch the sunset over the city. The next day was jam-packed with tourist activities: the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées. Falafel in the Jewish Quarter was some of the best food we had all week. We ended the night directly under the Eiffel Tower, cheap red wine in hand. The tower glittered and lit up the whole park and my heart was full with the tower and Paris and my love.

The next morning, we set out for the south. If only the rest of the trip went that smoothly.

My first word of advice: buy train tickets for long rides in advance.

After discovering that all the trains to Marseille for the rest of the day were full, we Bonnie and Clyded our way onto a train, and, thankfully, no one checked our tickets.

Marseille! The sun felt like Arizona and there were palm trees and an ocean breeze. Another train took us to the next town over, and from there we were on our own. We were ecstatic to book a stunning harbourfront Airbnb in a tiny town called Saint-Mandrier-Sur-Mer months before. But once we made it to the southern coast, we had no idea how to get to it.

A bus took us a bit closer. Then it seemed the only way into the town was on foot, up a steep and winding road along the water. This place seemed more trouble to get to than it was worth. After a sweet woman pulled over and insisted she give us a lift into town, we finally made it into Saint-Mandrier.

Tip number 2: If you want to travel somewhere off the beaten path, know how to get off the beaten path.

Our friendly Airbnb host then told us the only way into the town was on a ferry from the city across the bay. (Well, that wasn’t the only way.) Dinner was al fresco at the restaurant downstairs—the seafood and pasta that night was the winning meal of the trip.

Tip number 3: The food tastes better when you had to work for it.

I am still homesick for Saint-Mandrier. The little town surrounds the harbor, and the hills stretch back behind that. Our apartment’s French windows opened out to the water. On Saturdays, our host told us, farmers and craftworkers from all over go to Saint-Mandrier and set up a market in the plaza.

Tip number 4: Your Airbnb hosts are often your best resource.

We bought fruit, bread, and cheese from the market, wandered to the beach, and set up camp on our own little rock by the sea. Saint-Mandrier was a two-day blur of fruit from the farmer’s market, rosé, and wide-open windows. It was over before it began, and then it was off to the next adventure.

The next day we took the train to La Ciutat, thirty minutes west. Once again, the train only took us so close, and since the bus was too foreign and the taxis too sparse, we walked. Pro: It was a beautiful walk. Con: It was an hour and a half walk. See tip number two.

This time, we had a whole house with a sprawling garden. Our host showed us the two nearest beaches on the map, and the next day we hit both, baguette and cheese in hand. Every morning we slept in, and Rupert cooked us breakfast while I got bread from the bakery. The town was much larger and busier, with more to do.

Tip number 5: Bigger towns are more touristy. But they also have more English speakers and public transit.

Fate likes to throw curveballs. Next up, we had tickets to an overnight ferry from Nice to Sardinia and four nights at an Airbnb there before our flight home. But the train to Nice was delayed for two hours, and we missed the ferry. The next one didn’t go for three days. I cried. Then we trekked back to our place with the pretty garden with our lemons. And made lemonade.

We chose to go back to our first love, Saint-Mandrier and booked a small, last-minute studio. We lost a lot of money between the non-refundable ferry and plane tickets. And my new flight home from Paris. But we were headed back for three more days of al fresco dinner and our little rock by the turquoise waves.

Tip number 6: Be careful with your glass bottles. We managed to shatter a bottle of wine and a bottle of olive oil all over two different kitchen floors.

With the missed ferry and our extra time in France, we decided to take advantage of our freedom and choose one fun thing to do—so on the second to last day, we took the first train up to Paris and visited Monet’s Gardens. After an afternoon of stepping inside a Monet painting, then strolling through the fairytale town, then dining outside while the sun was still up at 10 p.m. and meeting the sweetest gray kitty walking home, I wouldn’t have traded that night in Normandy for anything.

Tip number 7: When you’re traveling, some things won’t go your way. Stick it to fate and let the mishaps guide you.

C'est La Vie