Near Drap, a village high above the bay of Nice, rosemary and thyme perfume the hills and in town you can catch
the divine scent of baguettes— those crusty submarines of bread baked to a sunny tan and split
on top where the taste pushes up and spills out. I bet you smell them walking by the Boul’ Ange bakery
and some days there’s a sign outside offering a free baguette to anyone who leaves dignity at the door and
dances across the shop. They put on upbeat music so it might be hard to waltz your way to a warm loaf but
a few flashy steps over the tile floor will do the trick as long as your heart is in it and your feet are willing. Even
old folks with weak knees can leave with their daily bread in hand not having paid a centime. Imagine
it’s Sunday and they have just come from mass, the litany is lingering in their thoughts and they are
moved suddenly as they enter that other sanctuary, the boulangerie, by words few churchgoers ever hear
as they sit through services planning what they’re going to have for lunch: Give us this day our daily dance.