“Madame, vous aller pleurer d’émotion.” [Madame, you are going to weep from emotion.]

The Monsieur paused for dramatic effect then presented a tiny cup of amour de poire, a delicate pear wine produced high up in the French Alps, a cork’s throw from the Italian border.

I knew it was a good idea to step into this curious little shop.

“You’ll get stuck in there,” Sabbatical Man had warned, eyeing the many signs at the door that suggested an eccentricity of proprietorship and eclecticism of wares that would make a quick browse impossible. Continue reading →