'Tis the season, mes chers amis. The season for the eleventh hour embassy to wisk you away on a squeaky bike across a wee, deserted town. Off the tire beaten path, down the road last paved in 1983, to the grove of which no one knows but you, me, and some old gent in a Fez... past the plantation home, past the epicurean fence, past the pink garden
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