|b l o g|
Much to say, readers, & how to do it? Rouen (yes, then) was an unrelieved horrorshow. It's a pleasant enough town if you like myths of burgeoning feminism (Joan of Arc was burned there), or Monet, or having 1.53 EUR bottles of wine stolen from you by Algerians. Then given back. Accomodations were swell-cheap, except that The Most Honest Innkeeper in France at Three in the Morning would *not* let us put three people in a double room (already paid for). He wouldn't even take bribes. (Quoth Valentin, 'Where did you think you were, Italy?') Casey slept outside the train station. Aaron & I stayed awake so he wouldn't be eaten, & so that the paramedics called for the drug-sick, sick-all-down-herself tart across the square didn't pick him up instead. Back in Paris, our landlord had his key in the lock. We waited three hours for him to leisurely answer a knock, buzz, or phone call.
A day or so later, we carried his luggage down when he left. (He did ask: 'You guys want to take a couple of things down with me?') The cunning stunt. He carried an orange juice carton. In parting he left us a dozen bottles of rotten Normandy cider & the empty carton: 'Don't say I never gave you anything.' It's been bonvivantism (cheese, butter, etc.) since then, except for my undiscloseably small bank balance.
Other French news: Olivier Panis's onboard fire extinguisher exploded today. That's what happened.