*Some snippets from my 77-day stay in Auvillar, France, at Moulin à Nef in the spring of 2026.
Day One:
On the flight over, I was seated next to an 89-year-old woman who had been rerouted onto my flight along with her 50+-year-old son. The day before, after enduring four long hours on the tarmac, they were grounded due to mechanical issues and had to spend the night in an airport hotel. Her eyes were a color I have never encountered before; coppery as pennies. As soon as I sat down, she told me she was headed to England via Paris to spend a month with her son and his family. Also, she added, “I’m mostly deaf and blind.” First class is never filled on international flights, and for the umpteenth time, I wondered why airlines don’t parcel out the empty pods to people who shouldn’t be asked to sit upright for seven hours. One time, mid-flight, I glanced over, and my neighbor was slumped over her open tray table, her hair sprouting white hillocks.
I worried that the show I was binge-watching, Tehran, might upset my seatmate, given the violence and chaos on the screen, but then realized it was probably a blur to her, which would have been better for me as well—especially given the state of the world. We are at war with Iran, thanks to the bumbling fool. One worry I have is that I’ll get stuck in France because of this debacle. Who knows what lies ahead?
Upon arrival in Toulouse, I was picked up at the airport by a man named Jean-Phillipe, who thankfully spoke English, because even though I have been practicing, I was too tired to say anything coherent in French. On a good day, it would have been a struggle. (Jean-Phillipe thought his English was terrible, but if he’s terrible, I’m in real trouble.)
When I arrived, Cheryl, the Resident Director at Moulin a Nef, showed me around the apartment—a loft bedroom, studio, kitchen, and living area. Fantastic, in other words. She had purchased some staples, so I wouldn’t have to shop right away. After she left, I unpacked, crawled into bed, and slept until 6 pm, which, as everyone knows, is the worst thing to do when you arrive in Europe, but which I always do anyway because I am afraid of jet-lag-induced falls. One time, about seven minutes into a trip to Germany, I tripped over a curb and broke my leg.
After waking from the nap, I trudged up the steep hill to the village of Auvillar. The elevation is only 486 feet, but coming from Detroit, which is as flat as a plate, I felt like Alex Honnold scrambling up El Capitan.
I arrived at the marché drenched in sweat, and tried to recall how to ask whether the Cassoulet contained gluten. Sadly, the sentence never materialized, so I consulted with Google Translate, thereby breaking the first of the many promises I had made to myself before embarking on this journey.
I also bought a five-euro bottle of a wine called L’Orignal, a Cabernet Franc (actually a blend of Malbec, Cab Franc, and Merlot) that was tres magnifique, from the Côteaux du Quercy AOC, located about 50 kilometers north of Toulouse along the Garonne River.
The climb up the steep road to Auvillar, though not the steepest part
The Garonne River.
The Garonne River (seen here outside my window) runs through southwest France from the central Spanish Pyrenees to the Gironde estuary at the French port of Bordeaux, a distance of 529 km (329 mi), following the Aran Valley northward from Spain into France, through Toulouse to Agen and onto Bordeaux.
And here’s a little-known fact about the Garonne: it is the last known home of the European sea sturgeon (Acipenser sturio), also known as the Atlantic sturgeon or common sturgeon, which is now a critically endangered species. This particular sturgeon can reach a length of 6 m (20 ft), weigh up to 400 kg (880 lb), and reach an age of 100 years. It is now so rare that it only breeds in the Garonne.
In the tiny village of Auvillar, there are 895 residents, but Jean-Philippe told me that five are over 100 years old, which is no wonder, given the excellent wine.
Pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago pass right by Moulin a Nef (and my window seen above) and continue through Auvillar as they travel along The Way. The last time I was here, in August 2024, it was tres chaud, and the pilgrims appeared uniformly deflated and morose, but today I observed one trekker decked out in bright pink, marching smartly, looking like she was having the time of her life. Given the current temperature of 20 °C, if you are going to walk 478 miles, this is probably the perfect season for it.
(As an aside, Jean-Phillipe told me he would never embark on a pilgrimage during the summer either because The Way is like a human highway, everyone “na, na, naing” in your ear.)
OK, I guess I should probably leave this desk and go outside. I will end this by saying that I have some goals. If they go anything like yesterday’s goal of not succumbing to Google Translate, they will not come to fruition, but I might as well lay them out, just in case:
Write something.
Speak French with someone at some point.
Forget about Trump, at least for more than five minutes at a stretch.
They will come to fruition. Using Google Translate was a medical necessity. Thanks for sharing the first part of your journey.