There is something spectacularly simple about the small villages of Europe that I envy.  They are unique, singular, and perfectly satisfied with their life.  There is no need to be more, to have more, but rather they prefer to do their work well and to maintain this beautiful existence where people live together in community with one another. There is no suggestion here that simple is less smart, not at all.  It is rather an appreciation that they have achieved something worthy of satisfaction. It is a community that is simple in the most remarkable way.  

What I enjoy most about it is the feeling of openness.  That means that your door is always open, your land is free for people to walk on, and your work is a function of a community.  I was headed out for my morning run, and Julien told me just take a path, there are so many.  When I expressed concern that I might be running on private property, he laughed yeah, probably, and if you get lost, just knock on the door and share a glass of wine.

My walk/run was amazing.  There are winding wooded paths that take you into the woods back into a vineyard, down to a river and into a pasture where I encountered some cows taking a late morning rest (or perhaps it is going to rain!). 

I love the feeling of unknown around the corner, and am comforted by a sense of peaceful solitude and quiet.  There are birds chirping, the crack of dried sticks underfoot, and the trickle of the spring running along side the path.  If it sounds idyllic that is because it is. 

Later that day, we went to visit the neighbors, Jean Luc and Sylie Dupeuble, who make delicious Chardonnay and Gamay.  We tasted their Chardonnay, unoaked, clean, and delicious.   When I asked about oak, Jean Luc just said, emphatically, no.  Sylvie shared that once they tried it in the barrel and she liked it very much,  but Jean Luc did not like the richness of it.  He thinks that Chardonnay is rich enough as it is.  Sylvie likened it to good butter, and she smiled wistfully reflecting on it.  

Their 2015 Chardonnay is lean, but not so much that it lacks supple rich texture, it tastes of fresh exotic fruits, with a cleansing acidity that makes your mouth water.  We talked about terrior, a notion that is second nature to these wine makers, and we tasted both their Moulin au Vents Gamay compared to the Fleurie.  The difference is remarkable to me, as always: same grape, same wine maker, but different soil, and vastly different experiences.  The Moulin was darker, stronger, more masculine, and the Fleurie more perfumed and soft, fresh, subtle, and just lighter. When pressed for a judgement, I was diplomatic and honest, I like both, but prefer the Fleurie.  Jean Luc laughed and told me that women always prefer the Fleurie, and Sylvie and I shared a look of knowledge, pleased with that moment of solidarity.  Bien sur, we have a more sophisticated palate, I joked, that allows for an appreciation for more subtle wines.  We all shared a laugh and then another glass of wine.

It is no easy feat to travel throughout our world.  Despite how readily available travel is to all of us, it is not easy.  I forget because it is so worth it.

After a Mission Burger and series of stages (car, train, bus, plane, train) of transportation and about 20 hours of lugging a bag and no sleep, I arrived at Lyon.  I am not sure why, but for the first time, I realized that when you travel it is as if time and the world stands still, and I think it is because you don't go outside, at all.  You move from tram to moving stairs, to moving floors, to a bar for a snack or a drink, to another form of transport, so much glass, be it bus, plane, or train.  So when you emerge into daylight, it is euphoric. Yes, perhaps that is also because you have arrived at your desired destination, but perhaps your destination is all the more attractive and satisfying because of the air, the sun, the wind, and the people.

I emerged out of the train station in Lyon, after many hours and little sleep, and the sun was abundant and warming.  When left Boston yesterday, it was mid-twenties, grey, and the air was so still, as if frozen.  In Charles de Gaule, I struggled with my bag, finding the right train, exhausted and unable to draw on the little bit of French that I can speak.  In Lyon, even finding the exit seemed more than I could handle. As I walked out into the cobbled courtyard, the warmth of the sunlight made me feel overdressed, and I continued to struggle a little with my bags. I felt like a tourist.  Well, I am one, but that feeling of awkwardness is so aggravating to me.  I prefer to move through the world as if it is all so easy, but admittedly travel is not, which is why I enjoy it so much.  It reminds me that I am not cool.  The sunshine and the fresh air revived me, so I took a deep breath, smiled at the abundant sunshine, removed my scarf and coat, tucked them into my bag, and walked slowly into the square.  Sometimes, we just have to slow down.

As I place my hand on the handle of my bag, resuming my self-confidence, I looked across the square and saw a friendly face.  It was my friend Julien waiting for me and smiling, probably recognizing my usually frenetic state and laughing a little bit.  And, at once, I am at ease; je suis calme et content.  I am in France, and I feel at home in a place where I barely understand the language and the culture is completely at odds with my everyday existence.  Does that make sense?

you have no idea what is down this path, but you know that you want to know...