UN: A small hen for lunch and a third cup of coffee by noon. My fourth day in Cèret, a town famous for artists. Picasso lived here just one summer, Modigliani and Braque for a few. The Museum of Modern Art cherishes this slender legacy. The locals, too: “They walked here and here,” boasts a portly, pointing lady. “Their feet beneath your feet.” Later, I saw the Devil’s Bridge on bike, crossed the Pyrenees mountains on foot.

DEUX: It takes two days to start writing, exquisite with caffeine and my grown-up heart on rampage.

TROIS: There is poppy-seed dust on the chopping board; thick fingerprint of goat’s cheese on the counter near the dish rack. “Toccata in C Minor” on the impenetrable radio. (Everything in French; the accent heavy and retching with consonants.)

QUATRE: It is colder in the house that it is outside, down by the river. A winter’s afternoon of cool and brilliant sunlight. I bring a heavy book, a crust of bread, leftover goat’s cheese. It is a long time before I find the swimming hole.

CINQUIÈME: What is this life? I am dreaming.