More Than Paris

France is more than Paris This dark, unfriendly French provincial town, only, a pizza parlour open run by a gloomy, unshaven person who looked like a reluctant refugee from Kosovo I wouldn’t like to stay down-wind from. Everything made of plastic tables, chairs that once had been white, under the counter rested pieces of pizzas that was going cold, I had two pieces one with salami, the other with tuna, washed down with soft drinks. Finished the meal, the man looked at me as saying: ” What are you still doing here? I left. Turned, looked into dirty windows, and thought” If this is hell I better start saying my prayer now.