The best moments of slow-lane travel are never planned. They simply happen, memories wrapped in unexpected discoveries. 
Sometimes they take the form of a deserted medieval ruin atop a mountainous plateau. Sometimes they arrive with the aroma of a delicious meal in a mom-and-pop brasserie in the middle of nowhere. Or they present themselves in the scenes of an ancient village, deserted but for the footsteps of history.
Nothing, however, compares with the unexpected invitation, the chance to meet the people in whatever country you’re visiting on their own terms, in their homes, at their pace. This happened to us nearly 40 years ago in Peru, when we recovered the leather jacket of a young woman engineer, who thanked us by showing us her Lima. It happened on a sheep farm in New Zealand where we stayed as a guest in the farmer’s house, ate with his family, and watched his amazing dogs at work. And it happened again last night.
Only this time we weren’t paying guests. We had done nothing to deserve an invitation either, other than to know a French teacher in Boston who is one of Anna Maria Yordanova’s best friends. It was one thing for Anna to show us around the Beaujolais wine region on Thursday. I write a blog; she works for the vineyards.
But never did we expect an invitation to her home — to join in a French barbecue, spend the night, and meet her three children (a daughter nearly 5 and 10-month-old twins), and her friend, Cesar.
“It’s not a hotel,” Anna told Kathy and me (always in French though she’s a great teacher of the language like her Boston friend Emilie).
She was right. It was much better than a hotel.
It was a hot Saturday, the first heat-wave of the spring. We arrived at noon after checking out of the shaded, peaceful gite, or guest apartment, Anna had found us nearby for two nights. (We couldn’t stay longer because it was rented for the weekend.)
This is wine country so when I went to pay the tab at 10:30 a.m. Evelyne Geoffray, part of a 6th-generation family of vintners and the mayor of the nearby village Odenas, poured me a class of red wine to taste while she helped another customer. It seemed early for alcohol, but, hey, I didn’t want to be rude.
Then we arrived at Anna’s house on a beautiful hillside overlooking the vineyards. 
Lunch stretched to a few hours of talk and play with the kids; it reminded me just how much we miss our own three grandchildren. Play turned to another wine taste (we had an assignment to bring back a good white wine and a rose “champagne” from that same Chauteau Thivin vineyard at which we had stayed — a good choice in wines, for sure).
Our second wine taste was followed by an afternoon nap.
And then it was time for the barbecue. The mother of my Boston teacher, Emilie arrived from Chamonix with her husband, two more new acquaintances in France. Cesar started the wood barbecue fire toward 8:30 p.m. as the heat began to lift from the hills. At 9:30, we had an aperitif of cheese, sausage and, of course, more wine. Then, at 10:30, it was time to eat, a beautifully prepared steak, vegetables and salad.
A half-moon climbed in the sky. And at 12:45 a.m., when we finished the cake for dessert, the Big Dipper sparkled straight above. We talked of music and family, travel and language, culture and politics, all through that haze of trying to comprehend conversation in a foreign tongue. We continued late into the night, warmed by the Beaujolais and beer. And I could only think of how absurdly over-planned and over-paced our lives too often become in the States.
In the end, none of the details of the conversation mattered. We had been taken into the home and hearts of a French family — or really a Bulgarian/Russian/French family. We had been welcomed simply for being ourselves.
That was special — a slow-lane adventure that escaped the superhighways of time and technology, a sweet moment that lingered over a long, hot day and a cool, animated night.