When people tell you things close early on Sunday in France they are NOT kidding. After spontaneously deciding to stop for a crepe mid-journey back into Paris from Dijon, because it occurred to us–not without considerable horror–that I still hadn’t tasted Margot’s favorite French food, we wondered for an hour on the hunt for the elusive gooey pancake! I know, I know, there’s so much more in the wide world of French food but this had to be done. It was our strange way of honoring the end of the trip, a hunt for something usually prevalent, suddenly made rare. Soon it will be any day of the week that requires a elaborate process to procure a crepe. We’re going away from the land of wondrous delicious, beautiful detail and sunshine. The first days in France it seemed we had all of our lives to eat crepes and Sunday we had only hours. My crepe lasted only seconds on the plate but the taste is congealed in my memory, always. Oh France, think not that I have forgotten you so quickly now I reside in Oxford.