We packed up things in Barcelona after what seemed like six eventful days, rented a couple of cars, and made the three-hour trip to Languedoc, in France.

The north of Spain and the south of France have much in common, linguistically, culturally, historically. But they seem very different to me.

Let me count the ways.

Spain is in economic distress. It wasn’t always obvious, in Barcelona, unless you were paying attention to how many restaurants were nearly empty (and not because we were eating “too early” — which in Spain is before 9 p.m.). Or how lots of people, the night before trash is picked up, were digging through dumpsters looking for items with value. Paper, metal, and the like.

Barcelona, too, seems the capital of a region (Catalonia) that can’t wait to break away from Spain. A sort of eager anticipation hangs over the city, where Catalan flags seem to flutter from every fourth balcony.

Ham is very big in Barcelona. (See photo on previous entry.) So is sangria.

Three hours later, after moving into a house in the little French village of Nizas (north of Pezenas; north of Beziers), several basic assumptions are turned on their head.

The economy is not in tatters. France isn’t exactly tearing things up, on the Gross National Product front, but neither do you see beggars and people digging through trash.

The south of France, while keenly aware of its own unique linguistic history, seems in no rush to separate itself from France. The tricolor is nearly the only flag you see here, aside from the European Union starred/blue, and the occasional Languedocian flag at city hall.

And the weather is quite different. Barcelona’s climate seems dominated by its place on the Mediterranean. It was surprisingly warm there, and more than a bit humid.

In this part of France, weather comes from the west, off the Atlantic, and such is the lay of the land that it blows hard, here near the Mediterranean side of the country. Hard enough to make for permanently bent trees, down around Perpignan, and warnings for high-profile vehicles, and for steady breezes — cool, and not unwelcome to strangers from a sun-baked land like the UAE.

Anyone looking for property here — and we have been, almost continually, for two years — realizes that no one should buy anything without a thorough understanding of the micro-climate where you happen to be hunting. It may seem calm, but at any given moment a cold, strong wind could come whistling through, channeled across the region by the Pyrenees.

But not everywhere. If you live on the back side of a hill, or around a bend, the wind can be negligible, even when it is blowing hard nearby. You just need to know where you are.

Also, the south of France is not nearly as interested in perfecting ham as is the north of Spain. And sangria becomes rare here. It is assumed everyone will drink some of the good and inexpensive wines produced right here in the Languedoc. And this time of year, they may well want to have some game, like venison or boar; it’s the season.

After moving in, it was decided that a trip down to the oyster village of Meze was a good idea, and we traveled the half hour in two cars to reach the city, located on a salt-water bay, and most of us had oysters and were happy about it. (I had thon — tuna– grille and was happy about it.)

This part of France seems tidier, more settled, more content, than does the north of Spain. As if most of the major issues of the time have been decided, and the vast majority is OK with how things have been sorted out.

Spain feels unsettled. Waiting for something, perhaps not good.

And while the south of France is less expensive than Paris (almost anywhere is), it seems significantly more expensive than Barcelona. Another euro or two across the board.

We now begin the bucolic portion of the vacance. Perhaps we should have stayed in Barcelona one more day, and just not taken anything valuable outside.