This morning at breakfast, upon tasting a slice of Compté cheese for the first time in 47 years, I ambled down a narrow street of worn stones in walled Besançon; I distinguished the subtle differences in a five-mushroom entrée at Les Tables D’antan; I perceived the faint swish of Bourgogne in mouths at a tasting in a cave, I inhaled the fresh sweetness of grass in the field outside the farmhouse where I slept; I clapped the white chalk dust from my hand as I ended my class at the Centre de Linguistique.

 Upon looking at the clock on the stove, I realized that I was running a little late; I washed down the Compté with the last of my coffee and put my cup and dish in the sink; I rewrapped the cheese and returned it to the refrigerator; I dressed as I planned my day.