Hobo Heaven

I may have arrived in France entirely by accident, but with the time I now have under my belt living Hexagonally, I know that it was in the cards all along. It was my fate, my destiny, my divine providence.

Because France is, above all else, Hobo Heaven.

The overwhelming majority of France's 62 million residents are country folk, living close to the land. The international ad campaigns-for everything from fine cuisine to wine to haute couture-would have you believe that France is a land of exquisite taste, decadence and refinement. To our "a chicken in every pot", the marketing moguls would have you think the French have an escargot in every ramekin, a Château Margaux Premier Grand Cru Classé in every cask and a silky Hermès scarf around every svelte, feminine neckline. But it's just not true. The vast majority of them-to their credit-are neither urban nor urbane.

They're rednecks. Just like normal folk.

If you were to tour the singular bastions of stereotypical France-from Paris to Biarritz to Cannes-you would traverse the redneckitiest of redneck domains to get there. Not an escargot in sight; not cooked, anyway. No Château Margaux or silky scarves, either.

In place of the Château Margaux, those 59,783,190 French who don't live in Paris, Biarritz and Cannes drink some of the cheapest hooch God ever shrink-wrapped into billions of grapes dangling from millions of vines. Imagine wine so humble as to be virtually unpalatable; enough to make the meekest, most unassuming American wino grimace in disgust.

And they imbibe that high-octane, low-grade grape juice in quantities leaving the rest of humanity looking like lightweights. For each and every man, woman and child in the country, 56 liters of wine are consumed each year-enough alcohol to fuel 36,000 flights from Paris to Biarritz to Cannes and back again. Just about the only heavier drinkers out there are the 932 residents of Vatican City, who manage to guzzle down another six liters per year per capita-no real surprise when you consider the abundant Biblical references to that holiest of beverages; they're practically under orders from above to out-drink the French.

A fellow North American hobo in France would also recognize a familiar obsession with trains among the French. Nineteenth century trains may have been invented across the Channel in England, but their modern-day incarnation-the ubiquitous TGV-was invented (and now at least twice re-invented) by the French. Since the TGV's inauguration in 1981, the French have laid 1,700 km of TGV lines reaching out to all of the hobo capitals of Europe; not the Londons and Hagues and Berlins, but hobo havens you've never heard of, like Le-Creusot, Arras, and Saint-Quentin-Fallavier. If current plans come to fruition, TGVs will soon reach Bellegarde-sur-Valserine. Knock on wood.

Given their choice, both the hobos of the world and the French would hop a train-bottle of wine in hand-and rattle and rumble off into the sunset, leaving the escargot, Château Margaux and silky scarves back in Paris. And that's where they should be, bathing in the simplicity, kindness and understated charm of the hidden hordes of French far from Paris. Next time you complain about a strike on the Metro, rude Parisian waiters, or canine fecal remnants, consider for a moment that you may just be missing out on the real France-the France beyond the Periphérique-where a simpler, slower and more sympa France might actually appreciate your presence.