On a Sunday in the Loire Valley, the streets are empty and shops are closed except for anyone wanting to buy chocolates or flowers.
I dropped my apron across the back of a kitchen chair and stepped out with my group for a drive to Tours. We passed by vineyards and fields of sunflowers and poppies and lavender and trogolodyte. The sun lit up the lazy river, and boats that could have been second homes to pirates waited, completely still.
The church of old St. Martin towers over Tours and his tomb lies below. It’s hard to imagine that someone has been buried in the same place since 397, but there he was, or so it said on the sign.
The avenue that runs down the middle of Tours is filled with a sort of flea market antique party once a month. Everybody puts out their best stuff and asks way too much for it. Everything from naked porcelain ladies to wardrobes and winestoppers. Crepes from the truck were excellent. The guy rakes the dough across a completely flat hot round and then covers it in butter and sugar.
We ate the crepe and thought about a dozen plates painted with fish, a fish platter and a fish sauce jug. Who needs a set of fish plates that won’t fit in anybody’s luggage? We did. It was a deal.