And, the online translation of my broken French to English:
My French is anymore good with every day tolerable. As you say? I have an interior dialogue with everybody at blocks about Paris. Yes is proper, with everybody, I talk at half-stillness. For example, him alternative day, a bloke march at my lane slowly and without expend he head. I have a chat with him bloke at point about island conduct. But, he await not, almost I talk not with size. You I hear? Alternative times, the conversations stillness is tin with a female Thanksgiving march in him lane any velvet without think or a dog Thanksgiving coarse at him footpath about Avenue Parmentier. And my French is anymore good almost is a lot any daft as that city.
The other day the doorbell rang and a guy sold me a Communist Party newspaper (no ads) for a euro. Afterward, I thought about him trying to do that in Texas, and then imagined his dead body.
Recently, our landlady switched our ISP to Freebox. In addition to wireless internet, it gives us free phone calls to the United States, as well as countless channels of nothing to watch, like Berbére TV and the Karaoke Channel.
What’s hip in Paris these days seems to be a recycled version of the late-Eighties in the vein of the early Jim Jarmusch films.
When I came back from Venice a few weeks ago, it was the first time I returned to Paris and thought “home,” and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
In the coming days I’m off on a three-week couscous bender. My aim is to see the majority of Morocco, going from Casablanca in a counterclockwise oval around the Atlas Mountains and back. I may visit Tangier (the city of my conception) and Kenitra (where I gestated on a naval base for a few months before being airlifted to my rightful birthplace in the Sooner Nation). I will also attempt to find an internet connection fast enough to stream the broadcast of the Oklahoma Sooners/Florida Gators BCS Championship Game on January 8. Or, I may just get lost in the Sahara and become a bedouin or a Berber or whatever.

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