Our “homelessness” continues. For the next three days we’re living at 16 Rue de Birague – off Place des Vosges – in one of Glenn Cooper’s apartments. Life is rough. Sunday will be my last day working for Cooper Paris Flats, when I bid Glenn a fond farewell. Last week we had dinner with him at Chez Gladines and he told us that once upon a time a female client got pissed off, took a shit on a hide-a-bed, folded it up, and left it there for the cleaning people to discover.
My replacement is a French guy named Romain who has relatives in Kenitra, Morocco, the town of my conception. He speaks incredible English, which he mostly learned from watching movies. His accent is very New York and reminiscent of Travis Bickle. The other day, he said “true that” and “crazy as hell.”
The other night at a brasserie near Pyrénées, Matt, The Dodger, and I settled in for steaks and potatoes – both roasted and au gratin. After Man U won 2-1 on aggregate versus Olympic Mayonnaise, the French lady seated near us abruptly stood up and screamed at The Dodger, “Ooooh... with a Portuguese striker and a Dutch goalie!!!,” payed her tab, and stormed out.
International students are a real trip. The Swedish guy had never heard of Norway’s Sondre Lerche but the Icelandic girl knew Jóhann Jóhannson. The Mexican girls have tortillas in their freezer.