| Hello, Hello, The past ten days I landed in the Northern Rhône and ended up in Copenhagen. There’s more to tell but right now I have a question: Have you ever had that moment when you don’t take a friend’s recommendation about a sweet hotel with a great view of Hermitage, where there was bound to be good wine and food within walking distance and instead decide on a booking.com spot that is cheaper? I had this moment: I drive down a road on a starless night to what seems to be at first an abandoned chicken coop. The blue glare from the television lights up a dark living room and I see someone get up. I admit to dread when I hear his crunching on the gravel. Then, he is there, hand behind his back. I seem to remember an Agnes Varda movie where something like this happened, there was a butcher knife involved. My flee instinct fires up but I didn’t move quickly enough and when he reaches me he assures me I have the right spot. I give in to fate. This is some sort of hiker hotel, not a chicken coop, and he is very thrilled. He can’t believe it, he says, there are two other Americans staying there. It’s a miracle. My stark room—the Ladybug Room, by the sign on the door—has a door to the communal patio, but no window. Very coop-like. Starving—I’d not eaten since fromage blanc in the morning and it was past dark—Tournon is too far away. I take his advice, “Sablettes, trés bon.” He directs me and it’s a short drive down another dark long path where I open the car door to a pizza truck, a campground, with a smokey outdoor bar and karaoke about to happen. “No, we only serve campers,” they tell me. But I prevail. They relent. I get the four cheese, it arrives as I watch the local talent croon. Ardêche. #winewritinglife | 
