Pat and I came to Paris for five weeks at the end of April. Given it was a short trip, we only took one break from the city—a long weekend to walk the southern half of the Côte d’Or of Burgundy from Santenay to Beaune.

As hikes go, it’s not far—maybe 40 miles spread over four days. The weather wasn’t perfect, but it was acceptable. The villages aren’t kitschy cute like those of the Alsace, but they are charming in a way that I prefer. Amidst some of the most sought after wines in the world, there is a complete lack of arrogance. At its core, these are farming villages. Since all of my great grandparents were farmers, I have an enormous soft spot for this region.

But this trip resonated with me for another reason. I’m trying to capture small delights in my everyday life, and to that end, this trip was a delight-filled cornucopia. With absolutely no time pressure, we could move—or not—to our whims. A walking trip, I’ve come to realize, is a completely immersive experience.

As we walked, I scribbled a few of my favorite memories. Here they are:

Night one: Santenay.

We buy a pizza from a truck on the main square for 9 euros which we eat at the corner wine bar. The server brings us two glasses of a Santenay premier cru that are wonderful. The forecasted rain holds off. It is a movie set, and we are completely alone in it.

After dinner, we walk through the vineyards and watch as a rainbow tentatively forms on the horizon and then gradually stretches into an unbroken arc touching down in the opposing hills.

Day two: Santenay to Meursault.

We eat croissants and drink espressos on a park bench on the square. A tiny market has formed: a fish man, two cheesemongers, and a produce vendor. We buy goat cheese from an elderly woman who displays stacks of varying age on a 3-foot-square card table.

Then, in the spirit of fairness, we buy a sheep cheese from the second vendor, a man with a much larger and more commercial stand. He warns us to pair it with a local white wine, not a red. We promise we will, tuck our cheeses into the top of our packs, and start the climb out of town.

Above Santenay, we hike around a windmill, take a silly number of photos, and drop back down onto the trail. Workers dot the fields, their clippers clacking like castagnettes. Within 100 meters, we come upon two men conversing over a stonewall. One of the men is a farmer in his field.

I ask him what work they are doing now, and he explains that they are currently snipping off the leads that have no grape blossoms. This, he explains, will give more nutrients to the vines with grapes.

They ask about our trip, and I tell them that we have just come from the market in Santenay and are heading to Meursault. The farmer tells us that his cousin is the goat cheese vendor. “We bought some cheese from her!”

“Pair that with a nice red from Auxey,” he counsels us. We promise we will.

The village of Chassagne-Montrachet is a ghost town: no boulangerie, no tabac or café. We continue on to Puligny where we buy a baguette and eat it on a bench with our market cheese. I’m an inadvertent liar; we pair the cheese with water. Once again, we are completely alone on a shaded square.

As we approach Meursault, a light rain begins to fall.

Day 3: A walk up to Saint Romain and back to Meursault.

We stop for a coffee at a tabac in Meursault. Tabacs are ubiquitous in France and are my favorite place to meet the locals. This one is no exception.

A man behind the bar is conversing with five customers who are clearly all friends. One of them tells us that he’s the mayor (he’s not). He knows a handful of English words, but the one he employs almost exclusively is fuck. Example: “If you want to play pétanque, there’s a pair of fucking courts 200 meters away.” (Note: that sentence is said in French—except for one word.) The bartender tells us that since we put up with the man, the coffee is free (it isn’t). As we leave the bar, the church bells are ringing.

Saint Romain…. We are looking for the “church up high” in the dense hills above town. A woman calls down directions to us, from her balcony, in heavily accented French. I ask where she comes from (thinking her French sounded Italian), but I learn she is from Ukraine—one of two women who settled here with their children two years ago.

Lunch: A perfect meal. Perfect weather. Perfect view. The young waiter is wearing a Dickies apron. He says that the chefs wear Carhart. This work-apparel class divide strikes me as funny, so I pull out my phone and jot it down.

Day 4: Meursault to Beaune.

The day before, our waiter in Saint Romain told us to stop in Pommard for pizza, so we do. The waitress recommends Italian wine. Here. In a Burgundian wine village. She sprinkles French sea salt on a step because it’s been raining and the step is coated with a slick mold. I calculate that she used about 3 dollars worth at US prices.

A Swedish woman and her husband are seated next to us. She tells us that they have lived in Belgium for 30 years, and every year they meet with Swedes living abroad for a golf tournament nearby. Afterwards, she and her husband stop in Pommard to have lunch and buy wine before heading home. I ask how they played, and she says, “Fine. But the people who live in Spain always win. It feels like cheating, because they can play year round!”

We all laugh.

Pat and I head out. Stop to adjust our packs. The waiter runs after us with my umbrella in his hand. I thank him. As we turn towards Beaune, it starts to rain.

Categories: Life in Paris

Tags: hiking burgundy, hiking France, Life in Paris, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween