It had been a long day. We’d luxuriated in Saint Tropez, some of us savoring kir royales (Champagne plus blackberry liqueur) at the yacht club overlooking the decadent harbor, followed by an equally luxurious two-course meal. It was any wonder nearly all of us showed up for evening yoga.

We’d been instructed to buy food for dinner since our chef, Nathalie, was off. Around 8 in the evening, we all meandered back to the dining area, armed with baguettes, saucissons, cheeses, and various other delights from St. Tropez.

“Ooh! Try this! It’s amazing.”

“This is really good with the bread.”

“Another bottle of rosé?”

The dinner went on for hours. Those of us who didn’t know one another well shared stories of love and heartbreak. Others shared a bottle of Jameson.

Being that it was cool enough for a fire, we relocated to the couches and frantically attempted to eke out a drip from the greedy Internet service as the men grunted at the fire. We women talked raising teens and music.

In bed afterwards, I felt sated. There’s nothing quite like like-minded company when you’re on a yoga retreat in the South of France.