The French Paradox Walking Club

I "joined" our little village's walking club. That means I show up at the Mayor's office on Thursdays, and join a large group of sept and octigenarians for a strenuous six-eight mile walk up and down steep hills through the French countryside. The Mayor and his girlfriend even joined us for our last walk.

Each week the group travels to a different village, meets a local guide, and then hikes off through the woods, vineyards, and farms, past impressive chateaux, quaint cottages, and old stone sheepherder shelters. These people are in their seventies and eighties and their stamina is UNBELIEVABLE.

Last week, after our walk, we had a three-hour picnic next to a lake . . . after lunch and one glass of wine, I had to take a nap, while the rest of them continued to drink wine and chat. Then, they were all gung-ho to go to an old farm equipment museum.

Most of the walkers complete the walks without drinking any liquids . . . and the days I have been with them it has been really hot.

The older French do not eat or DRINK between meals.
Roger told me he doesn't even take a glass of water between meals.

It has not been the French habit to drink or eat while driving or walking down the street . . . you can always locate me, or other Americans, in the marketplace or on the streets because we're always munching on something. Yesterday, my husband and I finally went out car shopping and noticed that the new cars for sale in France are now crowded with cup holders . . . so our American food consumption habits have infiltrated their cars . . . oh, and all the cars seem to have air conditioning now too, so sadly/happily the romantic era of sweltering French summer travel has been swept into the dust bin of history.