Anybody Who Doesn't Like Figs Has Never Been Properly Introduced

 On one of our bike trips to rural France, one of the days I took the ride and my wife stayed in lodging.

I can't remember how long a ride it was; I think 30 - 35 km.

A big part of it was on a straight road.

My memory is that that was the last leg of the route, and the longest.

After a little while I decided it was what bikers call a false flat which is what appears to be flat road but is really a hill - small, but nevertheless - a hill.

I drew that conclusion because, on that apparently flat stretch of rural French roadway, I was working really hard to keep making progress.

Anyway, I got into the small town that was the terminus of the route and was really, really, not hungry, more like depleted.

Just as I was contemplating what a downer the return trip was probably going to be, I glided by a six or so foot tall walled area that we would call in the US a vacant lot.  

They use hand-built walls over there instead of chain link, which is one of the differences between them and us, after sacks of golden potatoes left on doorsteps in the dawn of the day.

I saw something that caused me to stop.

Hanging out over the street - the wall was immediately adjacent the street - small town, remember, were several branches of a medium size fig tree.

And on all of those several branches were purple-black, perfectly ripe, beautiful figs.

After a brief consideration I decided beautiful, ripe figs hanging over a public street were public property 

Which was good, because I had also simultaneously realized that if I didn't eat several of those figs, I was going to be unable to ride back to our lodging.

I wolfed down several, picked several more and stored them in my saddle bag and set out back to where I had come from.

As I felt life flow back into me, I thanked the fig tree for saving me.

Going back the other way on that long, long straight stretch of road it became immediately obvious that it was not a false flat but instead had a direct wind to it, blowing directly, as I went the other way, at my back.

For some reason I hadn't been able to discern going into town, there was a wind going the other way into my face.

That was also the first time I realized that it didn't take much force opposite to force that I was manifesting to constitute real resistance.

As I learned that lesson that day, I couldn't believe how quickly I got back to my wife and we ate the figs.

Figs are to this moment sources of rejuvenation and life itself to me.

Especially black ones.

When I'm out for the day on a Paris wander and if I begin to have that same feeling of depletion, I always see if figs are in season; if not I buy a croissant; if figs are in season I find and buy both.

Paris may not be moveable, but it is a feast.