I went to a place without the internet because I wanted to live life deliberately.This, for example, would have been something to tweet.Or edit any number of times, lopping off prepositional phrases until the word count pulled up from a negative.
But I wouldn’t be sending the thought away. I was in a countryside home at the edge of the Morvan Forest in eastern France, an hour outside of the city of Dijon.
We’d made our permanent home in Dijon for the past few years, it being my wife’s place of birth. As the American newcomer, I’d always viewed it as slightly provincial. But compared to here it appeared to me as a burgeoning metropolis. We’d come, then, for the summer to the truer, deeper province. This remote country village had no commerce, no stores or bars, not even a bakery. Just a church dating back to the 12th century and scattered farms and residences, all surrounded by pasture. The house we settled into had no television, no phone line, and no connection. Some neighbors, we could tell, had wi-fi, but they kept to themselves enough that it would have been an affront to request the password.