I just ordered lunch; in French!
It’s suprising how much I can remember of the little I have. French, that is, not lunch.
The is one of the prettiest i’ve seen, with the most quirky architecture. I’m here on a sunny day, too, though people tell me it rains a lot. If I were to move here I think my biggest problem would be making friends, because of the language thing, especially during the initial transition period. But I definitely could live here.
The hot chocolate I had in Waterloo Station came in a pail; I wasn’t sure whether to drink it or dive in. The one that was just delivered to my table out here at a street-cafe in Rennes is like a brown espresso. At least supersize culture hasn’t hit yet.
And the sandwich they just brought me has my chips inside! No wonder the British have such a poor culinary reputation over here. I thought I’d ordered a hot chicken sandwich with side of fries…
. o O ( such a strange accent, he must be british )
. o O ( put his chips inside his baguette, Veronique, they like that sort of thing over there )
As soon as I started eating my chicken-and-chip butty, I started to choke. I entered the shop with tears running down my cheeks and convulsing violently and pointing at the taps:
“Oh! oh! oh!”