People have very small cars here, if they have a car at all. Late afternoon, men ride bicycles home, long loaves of bread tucked under their arms.
I have unsuccessfully tried to figure out if a machine near my hotel is a money machine or if it a ticket or a stamp machine.
Today I am going to the park, Parc’ des Buttes, to read. I found a book in English, at a used bookstore down the block, although I’m not sure I’ve figured out the price.
I’m not a very good tourist. I don’t like going to many places, only a few. I like sitting and feeling things.
Now I will try to buy that book, The Constant Gardener, by John Le Carré.