As I watched a hand appeared and stoked a tiny butane stove with a small pot on top. This seemed completely irrational, so I jogged over and knocked on the canvas. The entry flap opened up and a tow-haired young face looked up with surprise, followed by another fair-haired face of a young girl. I immediately invited them to join us in the warmth of the Whale and Louise’s bracing and spicy stew.

After dinner, sipping pear schnapps we learned Jonathon and Meredith were on school break from university in England hitch-hiking through Europe and, figuring Switzerland being south of the British isles it was a perfect place to put the fog and cloud-burdened skies behind them. I looked incredulous at the idea that there were others bearing the “Peter Pathfinder” stamp Louise had sardonically branded me on our first backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada. I diplomatically explained to Jonathon that while England was quite north, Switzerland shared the parallel with Canada.

With that, Louise brought smiles to our guests when she said we were off to Spain the next day and they were welcome to join us. We explained our destination was sunny blue skies of the Costa del Sol on the west coast. And that was how our merry band of gypsies were enjoying the superb French countryside rolling by on our way to an Iberian spring. At least we thought we were.

And, riding the tow-truck to the village to the auto shop, we met Jean, a gregarious and funny man. Jean represented the world-wide portrait of the independent mechanic, i.e., the sardonic techie or a screwdriver and pliers graybeard, more the latter than former, “In dollars,” Jean told us, “ about $1,000 including shipping a rebuilt engine from Paris. It will be about three days with shipping and installation.” Fair enough, we told him. He then directed us to an auberge run by friends.

Tripping through the picture-postcard village, we found small shops with windows brimming with succulent and seductive treats of bread, meat and dangerous-looking sweet pastries, beret-topped friends sitting at outdoor tables sipping colorful beverages making points with animated conversation and women shopping or deep in their own tè te-ê -té te. We found the Jean’s inn and were pleased to find a cottage that must have a history of 100 or more years.

One of the most enticing reasons to travel in Europe, in place of “tourist tours,” is the deeply imbedded history of the hamlets found everywhere. The bucolic rural community of Bourgoin-Jallieu is no exception. Located about 18-miles from Lyon in south-eastern France, Bourgoin-Jalleiu’s goes back to the 12th century where it was under the rule of Burgundians and Franks. The years that followed were rife with religious wars, floods and plagues that decimated the population.

At the time of our visit the rural flavor was giving way to the modern computer world. The high tech community was becoming the leading industry in Bourgoin-Jallieu and changing the demographics from its long-held 9,000 rural-essence to today’s over 25,000. Still, the flavor and fraternity of the village remains with the marketplace filled with fresh produce, surrounded by the seductive offerings of the specialty shops along the central square. The latter put our will power to the test; needless to say, we failed.

A favorite tasty-treat that goes back to the year 1447 draws shoppers from the villages neighboring the commune. The legend of the Bourgoin brioche says Louis II Dauphin of France, the future King Louis XI and his court and House of the Dolphin and rich gentlemen followers stayed often in Bourgoin. In the Dauphin’s honor local bakers created a cake in the shape of a crown with fillings of honey, pralines and white sugar.

An exotic signature of Bourgoin-Jallieu is the great Dauphine: jewel of the Dauphiné . The original liqueur was created from an 1855 recipe features a bitter-sweet orange zest. In 1935, Maurice Chavin added cognac finessing it’s complex aromas. Chavin recommends to drink the Dauphine pure, in a large glass or with ice. Many locally-famed configurations of praline-infused chocolate is another siren to lure you away from the wholesome life. Oh, my!

It was a warm spring day as we prepared our repast below a canopy of trees that have seen the hundreds of years history that has made the region a bellweather through back-and-forth battles, political high-jinks and the new world of computers. We indulged ourselves with squares of soft brie, sharp camembert and dramatic goat cheese. This accompanied by pears, grapes and, of course, fresh-baked French bread and a soft pinot gris.

On our return to the auberge, Margot handed us a note from Jean telling us there was a delay in shipping the engine from Paris. We walked back to Jean’s shop where he was so apologetic about the delay. “Jean,” Louise said, “we have found a kind of paradise with a whole new series of experiences and friends. No problem.” Even so, Jean gave us a substantial discount for the trouble. The people of France continue to display the myths of American perceptions of the French people that are just that: myths.

Three days later Louise and I left the picturesque hamlet of Bourgoin-Jalleiu with a new, purring engine and a “scrapbook” of memories behind us of the real heart of France: The people so full of la belle vie, the camaraderie and open arms to surprise visitors.