vendredi

After a compellingly diner horribles of braised quail and pasta (c'était "la suggestion du jour" dans le menu) you sleep a few hours on the plane (merci, Xanax).  You see gray skies and wet runways as you land at CDG.  Customs is a breeze: aside from showing your passport à un fonctionnaire (no searches, no dogs, no T-S-fucking-A, you walk right to the baggage claim.  Your bag is out immediatement, you score some euros at the cash machine, observe several uniformed soldiers patrolling avec armes automatiques, enjoy the crush and swirl of new languages, appearances, customs, smells, etc., and easily find la gare.

 La gare a CDG.

La gare a Nimes.

As you travel south, the skies begin to lighten.  Countryside rolls by: near Paris, sweeping fields of hay, both verdant green and harvested bronze; then rocky hillsides, small villages, rivers, etc., until you arrive at Nimes.  You step off the train, manhandling your luggage down the steep narrow steps of the train.  You give a hand to the American woman woman-handling her suitcase down the steps and she says thanks.  She and her husband are dressed in all-white, and they walk up and greet a guy wearing jeans and a Zildjian (cymbals) t-shirt.  The accents are definitely southern, and it turns out "the guy" is . . . Butch Trucks.  Yes, that Butch Trucks.  Le monde est petit.