I’m five minutes from my next hotel after over a week driving through the Auvergne, a part of central France known for its wine, cheese, and dozens of dormant volcanoes. My car GPS is yelling at me in French while my phone GPS yells at me in English; I’m surrounded by the sour stench of artisanally mite-infested cheese and day-old laundry that refuses to dry. My thumb is tourniqueted with a bit of toilet paper and a hair tie after, while “dining” at my desk last night at the French equivalent of a Holiday Inn, my too-sharp Opinel missed the link of dry-cured, lightly smoked saucisson an Ardèche farmer had given me and sliced through my finger instead.
Oh, and my rented Renault minivan is wedged in a ditch bordering a field of flattened, post-harvest rye.
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