(Source: Eddie Bauer LLC) I know the shape of this coast, the rocky shore, dark waves rolling in thirty-four thousand feet below. The jet engines hum. A businessman raps on the lavatory door. A line of tile-roof houses appears, then, further inland, factories and highways and the broad, unlit Fields of Viré, Flares and Nonancourt. The captain makes an announcement. The businessman sits. The plane banks left and the great circle of Paris rises above the wing. This is the route you take to the Alps, where French skiers wedel in fluorescent stretch pants and Italians eat osso buco in the summit lodge. But that's not the destination of this ski trip. The final destination is still unclear. It's...
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