Plus Tard has neglected to mention food.
One reality of life in France is that you spend exorbitant amounts of time either shopping at the market, cooking, or eating. Yet, post exile, I’m a notch down on my belt. I say it’s from lugging large canvas bags of food a full ten blocks twice a week with the notion of saving a Euro on apero fixings. And I just pulled that little muscle right under my shoulder blade. You know the one.
But let’s talk about Mexican food. They don’t make it in France.
This a problem after having had it three meals a day for thirteen years.
The crux of the problem is that the tortillas from Hyper Casino taste like styrofoam and cost a fortune. So I decided to make my own taco towels. Not so much. These also tasted like styrofoam, but this time they were unbending and carried the aroma of dried glue. Above you see the world’s first (and hopefully last) flour-tortilla tostada. People, there is no corn masa in France and the flour thing ain’t happening. Express mail me some fresh tortillas, and I’ll send you something from France that you can’t get where you live.