“At the end of every road in Grenoble,” wrote Stendhal, the nineteenth-century writer, author of Le Rouge et le Noir, “there is a mountain.” In the morning, Remon and I put this to the test and sure enough, from every street besides a few in the newer, more built-up areas, at least one mountain is visible.
Paradoxically, the valley that has developed into the city of Grenoble is one of the flattest parts of France. Passing through here feels like standing in the cleavage of a giant. Those huge mountains give me a feeling of sturdy surefootedness on my gradual course across the giant’s body.
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