“A Year In Provence” is the meringue of books. It is cloyingly sweet, airily light, and totally insubstantial. I have no idea if it is “accurate,” with respect to the facts of the Provence of today, or of 25 years ago. It might be total fiction, for all I know. That doesn’t make it bad, though. It’s a reasonable way to spend an hour or two. It’s like watching a rom-com: sure, you won’t remember it, but at the time, it’s perfectly enjoyable. Same here.