I took these notes during our walk and have decided to just give them a quick dusting.

Here we go:

Morning: Fixin, France

October 4, 2024

The Burgundian villages are, at their core, farming towns. No fancy shops. No large hotels. And at times, no food options at all—be that stores, boulangeries, or restaurants. In these cases, we eat whatever our lodging has to offer.

Breakfast is a classic French buffet—boiled eggs, yogurt, croissants, baguettes, ham, and cheese. We eat simply and quickly surrounded by eight tables of French diners. As we leave, the man at the adjacent table says, “Have a nice day,” in heavily accented English. It’s a kind gesture, and I smile.

On our way out of Fixin, we pass an old communal wash area, take a few photos, and keep going. We turn onto the dirt lane that cuts through the fields to Gevrey. Slivers of blue sky peek from behind the clouds. A breeze blows. Birds are chirping. The Fixin church bells strike 10. I look at my phone—it’s 10:03. The imprecision is comforting.

We soon enter a village that I’ve never heard of and pass an ancient church. I call out to a man in the neighboring yard to ask if the church is open. He replies fermé. Then he pauses, tells me I can get the clé from the town hall. He acts out the turning of a key lest I don’t understand. I thank him, point to my pack, tell him we still have twenty kilometers to go, and wave goodbye. As we leave town, somewhere a trumpeter is practicing scales over and over and over. 

In Gevrey, we stumble upon an unexpected coffee shop that I christen the café unknown to Google. When we open the door, everyone turns to us and warbles bonjour. As a man is leaving, he tells the barista that he’ll see her tomorrow, but she corrects him. It seems that something is going on in the village, and she won’t see him until Sunday.

We sit for 30 minutes, maybe longer, just soaking it in. When we get up to leave, everyone stops talking, calls out au revoir, and wishes us a good day. It’s like we’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and into the bar from Cheers. It’s feels like a hug.

Outside, Pat tells me that this would be a great blog post: The Cafe Unknown to Google. He’s right, but I could never adequately capture it.

Chambolle-Musigny: Holy-cow lunch with holy-cow wine. We walk in at 1:15 and snag the last table. The next two hours are pure magic. There are no prices on anything, and so we speculate how much this is going to cost; it’s not pretty. Turns out, the 3 course menu is an are-you-kidding-me bargain at 27 euro. As I pay, I apologize for our backpacks. The young waiter smiles and tells me it was no problem. 

In less than an hour, we’ll be at our final village for the day—Vosne Romanée.

Entering Vosne, we see the first grape pickers of the trip, working in a distant field. After a 12-mile day, it’s at least a half-mile detour to get to them. I’m ambivalent, but Pat races off like a puppy who’s slipped his collar. I lag behind, and by the time I catch up, Pat is in the field taking photos. He yells to me, “They are all Hungarians!”

Pat and the team are volleying random Hungarian words back and forth. Pat serves up a good afternoon—Jó napot. The team raises their imaginary wine glasses and tosses back a toast, egészsédre!

One of the pickers turns up his boom box and yells “Gypsy music!” They dance through the vines, filling their pails as the day draws to a close for all of us.

Day two ends—26 miles down and 26 to go.

Categories: Exploring France

Tags: Expat life, hiking burgundy, hiking France, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options