Free Lost at Sea by Jon Ronson Page B

along the Loire in the early summer sunshine. This was one of his favorite corners of the world.”
    I awake the next morning feeling unbelievably nauseous and constipated, and stumble blearily across the road for breakfast at the railway station. If there ever was a restaurant here, there isn’t now, just a vending machine selling crisps and Twixes.
    Had this been the case in Bond’s day, would he have eaten a Twix for breakfast? I wonder. Probably, judging by his constant desire to fuck up his body. I eat a Twix and begin to hate James Bond.
    I check the novel and read to my disgust that there’s a lot more eating and drinking to be done today. Bond had a big boozy and meaty picnic in the foothills of the Jura Mountains, followed in Geneva by a boozy dinner of Enzian liquor, “the firewater distilled from gentian that is responsible for Switzerland’s chronic alcoholism”; choucroute; a carafe of Fondant; a glass of Löwenbräu; a slice of Gruyère; pumpernickel; and coffee. I feel envious that Bond ended his journey inside Goldfinger’s villa. Being tortured is the only time during the entire trip he’d have managed to use up any calories.
    I jump in the car and head toward Geneva. It was here that Bond picked up a passenger, a pretty Englishwoman called Tilly: “Their eyes met and exchanged a flurry of masculine/feminine master/slave signals.” I’ve got a passenger, too—a photographer called Duncan. Our eyes meet and he belches. “Sorry,” he says.
    This stretch—through the Loire Valley toward the breathtaking, misty foothills of the Jura Mountains—was Bond’s favorite: “In May, with the fruit trees burning white and the soft wide river still big with the winter rains, the valley was green and young and dressed for love.”
    “You’re not going to believe this,” I say breathlessly to Duncan, “but the Aston Martin has got a connection for plugging in my iPod!” There’s a ping from my iPhone. “An e-mail!” I think.
    “Duncan,” I say, “could you possibly read me the e-mail that’s just come through? So what do you reckon, podcast-wise? Mark Kermode’s film reviews or . . . ?”
    “Calm down,” snaps Duncan unexpectedly. “You’re overstimulated.” He glares harshly at me. “You’re never going to understand what it’s like to be Bond driving through France if you’re this overstimulated.”
    “All right, all right,” I say.
    Duncan is annoyed with me. I guess we’ve got cabin fever, having been cooped up together in this Aston Martin for hours. Still, his tone shocks me. I feel as if I’ve been slapped in the face.
    Ironically, Bond actually was slapped in the face by Tilly, his passenger, after he gave her one master/slave eye flurry too many: “The open palm cracked across his face. Bond put up a hand and rubbed his cheek. If only pretty girls were always angry they would be beautiful.” I don’t agree with Bond about this. I don’t find angry women beautiful. I find them stressful and upsetting.
    “Turn off the iPhone!” Duncan snaps. “Turn off your e-mails. Just experience the car and the road. Just experience it!”
    “OK, whatever,” I say. I do.
    “See how nice it is to get rid of all that stimulation and just experience the car,” Duncan says after a while. “You can go faster. The car only comes into its own when you actually accelerate.”
    “So you’re saying that to truly enjoy the car, I have to break the law?” I say. But I understand Duncan’s frustration. I’m an annoyingly cautious driver. The speedometer of this Aston Martin goes up to 220 mph, and I haven’t once exceeded 70 mph.
    “OK, I’ll overtake that lorry. But just this once.” I gingerly touch the accelerator. “Oh my God!” I yell.
    I’m suddenly going 100 mph and the car is so smooth it feels like 30. I’ve never seen a lorry vanish so quickly in my rearview mirror. I feel like Han Solo in hyperdrive, or Jeremy Clarkson. It feels fantastic. No wonder the rich and