The other night I was in a bar in Belleville with some friends and a dude walked through the door wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a Huichol Indian visage of a magical deer on it. Not resisting my urge not to talk to him, I discovered that he had spent a few months in Real de Catorce, Mexico – though he was from Ecuador – and that he had come to Paris to see some of his family who happen to be living here. I got to practice my Spanish, which was nice after falling all over my French for five days.
The Dutch woman we are renting our flat from is an authority on Napoleon Bonaparte and she has strange taste in home furnishings – a mash-up of classic French and Middle Eastern. The shower is so small that when I turn around, my ass shuts the water off.
Pear and chocolate pie differs in its’ French and Mexican incarnations.
It’s difficult to find a Parisian grocery that is open on Sunday.