It’s weird, or perhaps it’s not, how comforting the British accent sounds in a place that’s not home. It’s totally taken the culture out of this place but no doubt that will return with the waiter. I’ve been putting off asking for the bill so I don’t have to attempt the accent again. Going to have to get it over with through as the cold air has spread to areas my mother would say was ‘un-lady like’ to mention. Kind of a good thing they can’t read what I’m writing.
If people aren’t wearing hat’s they’re sporting mustaches way too big for their top lip, maybe my bright red hair, eccentric nail polish and henna covered hands are what’s drawing attention and not my phrase book. Here goes, a bit more French then I’m back to my hostel to learn some more.
As the neon lights of ‘Hotel Des Alps’ blurs my vision slightly I begin to realise, it’s not that different to other countries, not that I thought it was going to be a parallel universe but you never know how others live.
My feet hurt as the cobbles begin to wear my shoes, the same street has seen my footsteps three times in the past few hours, no i’m not lost, yet, I just keep realising new things on the map and it’s different every time I walk it. My tongue is getting it’s feeling back after the sorbet that anaesthetised my taste buds.
The bolshy American teen walks past, pint glass in hand, the first time he’s been able to buy alcohol by the look of his baby face. Menu, boissont, order, he’s back, stumbling in the hands of his friends, apologetic that they are heading home at 9pm on a Friday night.
