“There’s got to be a winery we can visit somewhere around here.” The “here” is in southern France near Avignon.
“Might not be that easy to find one at this time of year.” The time of year is January. “Oh, look, turn in there.”
He pulls into the little yard. The sign does indicate it’s a winery. This may be their lucky day. But, no, after greetings and enquiries are made, it turns out that this little operation doesn’t offer tours.
They pull onto the country lane to continue the search and stop beside an elderly gentleman walking with a cane. She rolls down her window. “Excusez-moi, monsieur.” She asks if there’s a winery near that they might visit.
“Mais oui, Madame. Mais c’est loin. C’est loin.” His words are accompanied by sweeping arm and body gestures indicating a horrific distance. He names the winery. They thank him and prepare for a long drive only to find the very place 100 meters down the road.
They laugh as they screech to a halt to make the turn into the driveway. They’re from the vast prairies of western Canada.
Touring, via taxi, the Islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, they’re charmed by the tiny town with its Crayola colored houses—pink, yellow, mauve…
The driver takes them a kilometer out of town to point out the Cutty Sark houses. These are small cabins built from the crates used to haul liquor across the border during the American prohibition. “These,” their guide says, “are the summer houses, but some people come here when they’re not on holidays and drive all the way back to town to go to work each day.”
They stifle their giggles and don’t dare look at each other. They’re from the vast prairies of western Canada.