11 Sept 2007


SIX YEARS ago, when the World Trade Centre collapsed, I sat, sipping rosé from a Duralex Picardie in a small railway café in Epernay. Eyes transfixed, the belching smoke emerging from the mesh of the twin towers was projected onto a screen normally reserved for live football.
The following morning, in Beaune, my mother helped steady an American couple, far from home, who were trying to find somewhere open for breakfast.