Roundabout to Everywhere?

The world is your oyster...

Once your plane has managed to give the slip to Charles de Gaulle’s not insignificant gravitational forces, it’s barely an hour’s flight from Paris down to Montpellier. Just time enough for another chorus of the instant coffee blues, the turn of a page or two, maybe a quick snooze. Just an hour, but a world away, really. It’s worth noting that, as just about any native of the south will tell you, you’ve only just now arrived in France (“Paris, c’est pas la France.”).

Talk about magic carpets. In less time than it takes to watch a Rick Steves episode, you may as well have changed planets. Behind is the Europe where the North Atlantic calls the climactic tune and a cast of Celts, Gauls, Teutons, Anglos, Saxons and Normans wove the cultural fabric. Ahead is a place that bears the footprints of Greeks, Phoenicians, Vandals, Visigoths, Saracens and Romans. Not to mention a culture inspired by the Cathars, who had the cheek to thumb their noses at papal authority and had a whole crusade* launched against them for their trouble.

Thirty-some-thousand feet has a homogenizing effect on light. At that altitude it’s pretty much the same wherever you go, one big melting pot, the composite shade of the whole, wide world. (It’s down on terra firma that light meets terroir, assimilates, and becomes "local color.") As it descends through a thin veil of cloud, the plane is immersed in an illumination like nowhere else on the planet. It’s light that can make a person wistful, bring on bouts of everything from poetry to painting to impromptu wine-drinking -- and maybe even make a man crazy enough to cut off his ear.

The sensory conquest begun with the eyes is complete as my nose capitulates. Even in the jetway, mixed with wafts of jet fuel, the aroma of the littoral, the coastal flatland, all salt air and marsh plants is woven with that of the hills, rocks and garrigues blown coastward by the northwest wind. It’s a heady welcome.

Moments later, bag in tow, I find Valentine, Prune and the rest of the Sud de France contingent --evidently nearly everyone on the just –arrived flight from Paris. Group assembled, out the doors, into the late winter sun, under the row of alternating French tricouleur and red Croix Cathar flags flapping in the crisp breeze, and to the waiting buses.

At the first rond-point, one of my favorite things -- the ubiquitous “Toutes Directions” sign confirms that yes, you can get everywhere from here. Bienvenu, indeed. How cool is that? Despite the 26 hours that’ve passed since I awoke to a rainy Ballard morning, I’m amazingly energized. Good thing, too -- there’s still work to do. But first, there are a couple priorities to attend to: a chair that isn’t in motion -- and a beer.

*The real deal, complete with mass burnings at the stake and the wholesale slaughter of women and children.

More about: French wine, Languedoc, wine

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