By the time they were installed in their hotel it was 10:30 at night, which made it 4:30 in the morning their time, the exact time they had gotten up twenty-four hours before to begin this trip. As they were washing up, I wondered where twelve people could eat in a small Georgia town at this hour. Thank goodness for Waffle House, my old friend from college days, its bright yellow sign beaming at me from across the parking lot. The French had come for the American experience. What could be more perfect? Sébastien had loved it the first three or four times I had taken him there, after which he had asked me if I knew of any American experiences that weren’t greasy.

Titi and Jean-Charles finished washing up first and joined Sébastien and me outside the hotel, lighting up cigarettes the instant they got out the door. Bruno followed a few minutes later, cigarette already lit despite Sébastien’s promise to talk to him about indoor smoking. They all gave deep, shoulder-heaving shrugs, the kind miners might make when coming out into the light after a twelve-hour shift.

“Now,” Bruno said, slumping onto the bench beside me, “for a nice cold beer.”

“Oh.” I looked around the town, much of which was visible from where we sat. Surely there must be somewhere within a half-hour radius that would be open and serving alcohol at eleven on a Tuesday night, but nothing sprang to mind. I hated to be the bearer of this news, but: “Waffle House doesn’t serve alcohol.”

“Oh.” Bruno looked briefly disappointed, then made a moue of acceptance. “Well, wine, then. Whatever.”

“Um,” I said. “They don’t serve any alcohol. No wine, either.”

All four men stared at me, as if my words, though in French, had no sense in the language in which they were spoken. They simply could not be processed through a French brain.

“You have restaurants that don’t serve wine?” Bruno précised, with great care.

“Um. Well, quite a lot of them, really.”

“I didn’t know,” Sébastien interjected hastily, as all eyes began to turn toward him.

They hesitated, came back to me, then refocused on the parking lot, so as not to seem too accusing of any one person. “I feel that,” Bruno said very carefully, “it should have been mentioned. Before we came.”

“I didn’t think of it,” I said plaintively.

“It should have been thought of.”

“How could you possibly not think of it?” Jean-Charles asked, appalled.

“Look, I told you to get a French guidebook! They warn you about what sandwiches have Cheez Whiz on them, too.”

“That’s not a myth?” Jean-Charles asked, distracted. “You actually eat that?”

“Then a bar,” Titi said. “Surely you have bars.”