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Flashes of Auvergne


In the lower-right pocket of my faded-green khakis was a three-inch combo pocket knife and corkscrew. It was the classic stainless steel type, old school, without a lever; the kind you had to pull steadily and firmly on; the type that, win or lose, you knew the bones of your palm would be left bruised, throbbing, malcontent, burning red; the sort that permitted you to pour a glass but only if you feverishly persisted and willed it. In my five euro, modest-sized, nylon black backpack, crumbs and morsels of three-day-old bread from the village boulangerie mingled with several untouched raw carrots from Wednesday's open market and a ten-inch blue thermos filled with fresh-squeezed lemon water. Beneath my weary armpits were crutches.


(tbc)




Photo: Close Encounters

Sandrine

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