Driving through the villages of France in November feels like moving through a quiet, almost forgotten landscape. The skies, heavy with clouds, cast a dull, grey light over the narrow roads and aging buildings. Many of the houses show signs of wear—peeling paint, cracked walls, and shutters left hanging askew—evidence of a middle class struggling to keep up. The streets are almost empty, with only the occasional car passing by or an elderly resident hurrying through the cold. Shops are often closed, and the few that remain open seem to do so more out of habit than business. The trees are bare, and the damp chill in the air adds to the sense of isolation, as if these once-bustling villages are caught in a moment of quiet endurance, waiting for better days.
