Provence in August.

The cicadas were loud enough to be a third person at the table. The courtyard was old in the way Roman things are old — not preserved, just still here.

Tilleul is linden blossom, dried in summer, brewed pale yellow and a little sweet. The French give it to children who can't sleep. They also give it, less officially, to adults who can't sleep. It tastes like a flower that knew it was being dried. [^1]

I drank it slowly because the heat was the kind that doesn't reward speed. A woman at the next table was reading a paperback in German. A boy chased a cat that did not want to be chased.

I have never been less in a hurry. Tilleul agreed.

[^1]: The trees grow all over Provence. Late June, the streets smell like honey for a week, and then it's over.