L’Observateur : Loaded Up and Truckin’ Edition

My vélo travails are well documented in these pages, and they continue. Yesterday, when I went to unlock my newest bicycle, someone had tagged the seat – in pink Sharpie. Your world, psy8eon.

We played basketball at Gymnase Japy again last night. I jammed my finger in the worst way trying to tip a rebound, and I subbed out. An extremely awkward Franglais conversation regarding my finger ensued with a Frenchman. I thought he was offering me some tape to wrap my finger, but it turned out he was offering me some topical pomade. In case you haven’t heard, the French put lotions and cremes on their body for almost any ailment. I asked him, “what is this, painkiller?” and he just shrugged his shoulders.

There are so many non-homeless, non-psycho-looking French people who talk to themselves in public, that I think it might have reached social acceptability here.

When we were driving through Normandy last week, I couldn’t get the song “East Bound and Down” by Jerry Reed out of my head.

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