When I think of Sancerre, when I look at these photos, I feel it.

The stirring in my heart. That yearning, mixed with a twinge of heaviness.

I could live here. I could wake up every morning. Walk to the boulangerie. Buy my bread. Talk with the owner. Lazily make my rounds.

Talk about the weather; the low lying fog that wraps its arms around this village in the cold winter months. I could try to talk politics, knowing the only safe word necessary: Napoleon.

I could live here. Sans doute.