The first nine days here were ones of gray skies, fat dairy cows, and daily rain showers in Normandy and Brittany. Then, for about 100 miles--from near Rennes to the medieval hill city of Parthenay--the poverty of the villages and the cloudless, hot sky reminded me of Mexico. In those 100 miles I feared the heat of Africa was already upon me. Four four long days, the fruit trees and the streams were few while the lizards and spiders and palm trees were many. Walking in the middle of the day was out of the question, and I had to content myself with napping in the shade like a lazy tomcat.

My clothes needed washing badly and nowhere in all of France have I yet to find a coin-operated washing machine--not even in the largest of the cities I passed through! Then, west of Parthenay, I discovered a beautiful little spring-fed pond, and I was able to once again enjoy France in comfort.

Here in the south of France near the Pyrenees all the prior aspects of the country settle into a mixture that is mmmmmwhhhaaa!! I can only wonder how a land can be so blessed.

Walking in the morning is a great joy--looked forward to all night long. First, one is awakened by the songs of hundreds of birds. Then--precisely at 7 o'clock--there is the long tolling of the village church bell. Even the sun knows it's only natural to be lazy in southern France, and it rises from the cotton-candy fog ever so slowly. After a few hours...more magic: dew droplets clinging like zillions of finely-cut diamonds to the vines of fat grapes and to the leaves of the rows of sycamores lining every roadway.

I can now understand why this region has been a mecca for artists and writers; there is so much joy here to rejoice about. The tranquility, the natural beauty, and the fertileness of the land are reflected in the customs of the locals. Indeed, at long last, I have found a people who enjoy lingering for hours over a good meal. They have not forgotten that the things to be enjoyed the most--and the longest--in life are usually the simplest of things...such as eating.

A dinner I shared with a farm family in tiny, tiny Foufreroux de Souvigne was an excellent example of how the French in the rural areas go about life. The room in which the ten of us ate the late evening meal was a combination living-dining-bedroom. First to be served was a strong before-dinner wine. Then came a large bowl of tapioca-tomato soup, with a lighter wine and lots of French-style bread and pate. Then, from the same bowl, everyone ate a large salad of fresh garden vegetables. (All homes in France seem to have an enormous vegetable garden.) Using the same bowls we ate our soup from, we devoured hefty helpings of tomatoes stuffed with beef and pork and onions, all simmered in a light oil and accentuated with still more fresh bread and a seemingly endless supply of wine.

Finally, after the main meal came the customary treats--cheeses made from the milk of goats and cows, yogurts, and cognac-spiked coffee. And of course there was more bread--and home-grown grapes, and apples, and peaches, and walnuts.

Interwoven throughout the meal were generous laughter and conversation. We had sat down to start our feast at 7:30, and we were not to rise from the table until 10:30. And that was after having enjoyed a two-hour-long lunch earlier in the day. Now that's a true art!

One young boy who had studied English in school perhaps best summed up the outlook of the rural French when he remarked, "We understand that in America you put money first, and love second. Here, we put the love of life first, and then, if there is any, money second."

You know, something tells me that my heart will be sad the day I cross the Pyrenees.

Steven