But first, an aside, France is modern. Even the electric outlets look modern, and the cars even more so. End aside.
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. Mark Twain
Almost a week ago, we drove from Die to Lyon. We drove the long way, up a valley into the mountains, over a pass – well, through a tunnel about 500 feet below the actual pass – down the valley to the north, and across some rolling foothills, and then across the mostly flatlands into the industrial part of Lyon.
As we headed up, the road was steep with lots of switchbacks, but after the tunnel, the descent was more gradual, somewhat like going over the Sierras from east to west, but not as extreme. We passed through several small, picturesque villages, and I started thinking about a conversation I had at our re-u with one of the hosts.
I had said that the village we had visited was beautiful, and she responded that every place in France was beautiful. I retorted that every place is beautiful, meaning that every natural place I have been that hasn’t been desecrated by the overlay of civilization is beautiful. I remember being in a drizzling rain that smelled of cow shit in Amarillo, Texas – coincidencly on the way to another family re-u – and thinking the Texas plains are the uglyest place I’ve ever been. The next day, we went for a walk in a private park – yes, Texas has private parks – that celebrated the Texas plains, and remarked to Michele on the stunning beauty.
But our host was right, in France, at least in this part of the country, the overlay of civilization is softer and more integrated into the landscape.
As we got to the base of the mountains, I had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. It felt like driving out of the Sierra Nevada mountains on Highway 120. We would drop down the Old Priest grade and the air would warm, then into the valley made by the Tuolumne River before it was filled by a lake made by a worthless dam, then the land would flatten, and then, just west of Escalon, in the heat, we would drive on a narrow section of road through the almond groves. It didn’t look the same, but it did feel the same (except for the hayfields).
