I am standing roadside with my family in a French village no bigger than a Sears. Our French-speaking children—daughter on my shoulders, son by my side—wave American flags as we wait for Lance Armstrong to reach us en route to an unprecedented sixth victory in the famous Tour. I too am an American. My French wife brought us here to the Dordogne to raise our children in the heart of Michelin’s France, the France of chateaux and vineyards, of restaurants in Brantome, famous for foie gras and confit de canard, where river wheels turn slowly behind waiters in white jackets and the mill water drips as wine is poured into tall glasses. It’s the Dordogne of the travel books, home to the ancient artists of the Lascaux caves, and more recent masters—La Rochefoucauld, Montaigne.
