An American couple living in a remote fold of southern France longed to become part of the local community. Then they got a thrilling invitation to a winemaker’s blending session.
Our backs hurt, our brains sagged, our mouths were sore. We had just spent a hardworking shift on our feet in the slightly headachy fluorescent glare of a laboratory. Outside, all morning, the Mediterranean sun had bathed the beaches and vineyards of this corner of the Languedoc in late-autumn warmth.
Mary Jo got in the car, shut the door and looked over at me. “Was that possibly the best morning we’ve ever spent in France?” I asked her.