I started to tell them that in the U.S. you could change the death penalty according to what state you were in, but then thought better of it. Self-preservation was still a minor interest of mine. “Well, and, er, county, yes.”

“What’s a county?” Titi asked suspiciously.

“A very small local division of government. There are 159 of them in Georgia. Also, I need to explain to you that in the U.S., beer and wine are considered alcohol. Now as to what you keep referring to as ‘alcohol,’ meaning gin, rum, and all that, I know it’s legal in certain counties in Georgia; but I’m not sure which ones.”

Bruno took a deep breath, still flexing his hands in an ominous fashion. “What else do we need to know before we travel any farther?”

My country was so normal compared to theirs that it took me a moment to come up with anything. “Well, on a scale of one to ten, how do you feel about spiders and alligators?”

“Reserved,” Claudine interjected. “Why?”

“Because weren’t we planning on going to the Okefenokee Swamp?” I had wracked my brain for months before their arrival, trying to come up with fascinating American cultural experiences I could share within range of the French idea of driving distance. I don’t know why, but Super Wal-Mart just never occurred to me. The Okefenokee did, though, and I felt sure it would be perfect. The Okefenokee Swamp was exotically Southern American even for me, a deep, strange, wild, wonderful place.

“You keep saying that word,” Bruno said. “Swamp. What does that mean?”

I thought for a minute. “Étang.”

They all gazed at me, baffled. “Is it really worth taking time out of our trip to go see an étang? We’re not here very long, you know.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” I said. “At least . . . hey, how could you not? You don’t have anything like it in France, I promise you. It’ll be an adventure.”

They all exchanged dubious glances, including Sébastien, who had never seen the Okefenokee étang either, but who tried to take my word for it that it would be worth the trip.

“So what do the alligators have to do with an étang?” someone asked me as we were driving the two hours south of Savannah to the Okefenokee. “Do they keep them in cages there or something?”

The roads back into Okefenokee Swamp, each one smaller than the last, wound and wound their way into ever remoter countryside. Gas stations lost their ability to take credit cards at the pump and then disappeared altogether. We sank into forests of pine and opened our windows to the scents and the heat, which buffeted in through the windows, fighting the air conditioner.