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ah, Montpellier

The French burg that I know best, after Paris, is Montpellier. Just as General Douglas McCarthur landed at Inchon on his way up the Korean peninsula…. Hmm, scratch that. Just as many another overseas for a year student ended up at Paul Valery university for the year in France, so did I. That was a crucial year for me, a defining year. Montpellier, at that time, was still the crossroads of the last hippy contingent, for one thing. In Agnes Varda’s Sans Toit ni Loi , from 1985, the Sandrine Bonnaire character wanders in the Languedoc region – which was a shrewd hit. No novel conveys that late walkabout period like The Savage Detectives. The decision-driftmaking is perfectly conveyed in part of that novel. The  zeitgeist went like this: “Our money ran out in Paris, but we weren’t ready to go home, so we made our way out of the city somehow and hitched south. Near Orléans we were picked up by a camper van. The driver was German and his name was Hans. He was heading south too, with his w
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Mere anecdotes, the historian said, and ordered another port

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