.. . in that neighborhood is like being in another place, a place in the place ... I just put the luggage in what appears to be a hovel, disguised as a hostel. It 's late, but I found the place easily. Resurface memories, places, things and faces, hunger. E 'after midnight and I have to solicit food. I make a turn around, try things edible.
All the way, at least in the area. Finally I find, a tiny take-away turkish ... no, Moroccan ... no, Indian ... blissful ignorance. Later I try to explain to a little man up the middle of a down if there is something to eat. It 's all wrapped in coils of celofan, everything extremely fried. My French is smooth as alabaster cube rolling on a beach ... and he comes to mind that I might not be the place. He points to square things, which are also extremely fries, says a few words in French, I think the ingredients, I understand only Pomm d terr, know! Potatoes! Good, hunger! " Ok! Une! "he replied with one word, I could not write it down! I - " Oui! "I do not know what that means, but I'm lucky, makes it extremely fried, with traces of food including apples to the ground in a microwave and heated it to me! Answer Exact!
But it is only the first day! ...
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