Marlboro Country
I'm blogging from it, a place otherwise known as Paris, France. I swear, the woman next to me in the café just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in the span of about two and a half hours. I don't know how she does it, considering the exertion this town sometimes takes, thanks to its consistent mechanical semi-functionality.
Friday, for example, the elevator was out. I ran up seven flights of stairs to get Lucy, down them to take her for a walk, then back up them to leave her in the apartment (I was going to a museum, one of the few places in France dogs are not welcome). Maybe this woman lives on the first floor (the rez de chaussée) which is actually floor zero here (the second floor is considered the first floor). I dunno where she lives, but I think she'll be accessorizing her apartment with an oxygen tank rather soon!
Regarding what does and doesn't work in France, one of the most functional entities here is the post office. A letter gets across Paris practically before you sent it. I mailed a postcard to a friend late Thursday afternoon...she got it early Friday morning. At .53 for a stamp, that beats Fedex Priority by what (just guessing), about $34.50?
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