Watch: A French Flick With Exactly Zero Turns (Or Women)

There is a place, somewhere between Iceland and Gabon, where swells from a faraway land meet their demise on sun-baked shores.

The wind, which hails predominantly from countryside vineyards, carries the scent of croissants (pronounced kweē-säw-nT), cigarillos, and female underarm hair. Locals like to smile as they spit on your silly peasant shoes, but it’s not all their fault. They are fat on wine and drunk on cheese. 

But the waves, oh the waves, they absolve this terrestrial stench like Rowling did Snape. In this land, the lip falls with such vigor and pace that no man has dared crane his neck since the Great Sand Exodus of 1987. It is, maybe, the best place ever*.

Welcome to France. Your beret is in the welcome package. 

*Author has never been to France, though he maintains an appreciation for its major cultural practices like eating crepes and baring nipples.