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this bed. its no hardwood floor, with its cotton sheets and africans dressing, cool sheets that welcome me, say bienvenu, simply, with no frills, sincere. i helped natasia and soléne make quiche. i rolled out the dough they already made and put it in the pan i buttered, not much help. the quiche baked and thiery, solénes father, natasia's boyfriend, arrived home; introduced himself in french, then in his thick accent asked We need, uh, to speak english for you? made me nervous doing this, i said I wish you didnt. he lost his accent, but not his humor. we cut up over dinner, and his generosity pulling nice wine from the cupboard, sharing with teo, natasia's son and her daughter. chopped veggies, each in its own bowl with its own sauce, the quiche, the wine, a salad, and an ice cream bar. all this after a hell of a day thinking:
damn it the french feel entitled to everything, yet share nothing. anything you want costs - phone, directions, a ride to where they're already headed. they strike if they dont like something and mope if they work; the girl at the metro piddled at her desk several minutes doing absolutely nothing, which was obvious - strighten pens on the map, open a drawer, swivel the chair - before helping, if she did, i didnt wait around to see, the one lady persistent enough, or patient, to wait. my phone card cost 7€50 and doesnt work at payphones; i used it at the taxiphone; now the card is running out of minutes and taxiphone charged me anyway - as does the hotel after the man with cellphone said No when i asked a favor.
why so upset? because people dont treat me how i like to be treated? its a long road; but for every middle finger i got hitch-hiking, i got four apologetic waves. so i decided to forget the day, except - the notre dame is breathtaking, the louvre shook with pipe organs, and moulin rouge is red, but theres no absinthe or rimbaud - and ill bask in the night spent within generosity. i was gonna sleep on a hardwood floor after an avocado for dinner.
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