For every pound of stinky flesh, can I get a milligram of gold?

Sound track of the day:
With every day that passes I fall nearer to the ground
It seems that I’ve been searching for something that won’t be found

Current Temperature: Although still slightly brisk, it’s a glorious bright spring day in France. Even the daffodils are gracing us with their glow.

Culture clash: No CrestToothpaste in France? Mon dieu!



What the hell am I doing? The shit I spew out is pure crap. Even that statement is redundant. I cringe at every sentence, every poorly chosen word and watch as it smears its ugly face across the page. Life is too short and time is so precious and here I am producing worthless garbage. I know why I want to do this, my purpose is staring at me in the face each unproductive day and here it is again telling me I will fail myself if I don’t get something good going.

[and scene]

I had spent the day, exploring Versailles. It’s all starting to make sense to me now. So far I’ve only been following Jen around but the streets and stores are starting to make up a story. Strolling along Avenue St. Cloud is gorgeous with its wide promenade with bright yellow daffodils along its embankment. A flower market bustles just outside Passage Clemenceau, an underground walkway that gets you across St. Cloud halfway through the boulevard without having to walk to the end to find a cross walk. There’s a small Tabac at the entrance of Passage St. Phillipe that I think I’ll go back to after an hour spent there over a glass of wine. It seems that at any time, people will walk into the Tabac and order a pack of cigarettes, a glass or wine or an espresso and idly contemplate the weather. No one is rushed. I realize it’s Versailles, not Paris, but I get a sense that there’s nothing that is so urgent that it can wait for the rich cup of coffee to be fully experience. I thought the Italians had cornered the market on pleasure. I think the suburban French might give them a run for their money.