Paris is full of people who need directions and, when I wear my black t-shirt, French or not, they ask me how to get where they're going. Something about the t-shirt, clearly, something deep in the warp and the weave, calls out that some part of my DNA is French.
Of course, that's not true. But I've come up with a response: Je suis desollee, mais je ne peut pas parler le Francais parfait. Or something to that effect.
Every evening, as dusk comes in, we're reminded that we're in France -- slowly the Tour Eiffel begins to light up, until the sky is black, and the Tour is completely illuminated. Every hour, it flashes for five minutes, and we're still new enough here that we run to the window to watch it, every time.
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