After a hair-raising drive down the Napoleon Route and through the Maritime Alps, Giuseppe and I arrived in Sanremo two days ago. Our half-baked travel planning resulted in a screwy journey through slushy conditions 1800 meters above sea level in the height of winter.  We had no snow chains, but we did have according to my count: exactly two bottles of Riesling, four walnuts and a block of foie gras.

Around the time my butt warmer stopped working and our old BMW convertible started swerving, I wondered if we might have a little Donner party situation on our hands. Giuseppe invoked the name of Saint Rita.  I contemplated fashioning a shiv out of a twig in the car.  And somehow, aided by Saint Rita, cigarillos and the plaintive crooning of Serge Gainsborg, Giuseppe maneuvered the car out of the Alps and finally to Grasse.