Cappucino in Bourgueil automatically comes with whipped triple creme and shaved chocolate. There is no explaining, you just have to drink. After the croissant arrives, there is a pregnant pause, and then a petite dish of truffles is slipped under the radar of the Mothers Against Chocolates with Breakfast, who seem to be out of work in Bourgeil all together, as I have never noticed even one flashing evil eye–with chocolates flying from hand to mouth at all unreasonable hours of the a.m. After due fortification we made our way into the open market that spills out from the main square to buy fresh fish, herbed sausages, local apples, massive cabbages that opened up like roses and cheese. Tonight there is a lesson with Jean-Pierre on how to taste one cheese from another and a wine tasting with Jerome. E voilà, life unfolds.

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