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About Nantes

Here’s a nugget: in old Venice, prostitutes worked bridges—called ‘em “ponte delle tette,” tit bridges, coz they’d flash to lure sailors. Wish I’d been there, sippin’ wine, watchin’ the show! Beats skulkin’ round Flea Bottom, dodgin’ rats and cutthroats. Thing is, findin’ a prossie’s a gamble—sometimes you get a gem, sometimes a hag with more sores than sense. “What’s done is done,” like they say in the movie—once you’re in, no backin’ out. Surprised me once, this one gal knew riddles—smart as me, nearly. Kept her an extra hour just to chat. Rare, that.

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Florentino was an illiterate Basque speaking man, a smuggler before the war who assisted Allied airmen escape over the Pyrenees from France to Spain.

I even found a tiny park, Parc du Selosse, where I used to set up a bench, read a book, and sometimes talk to myself – haha, like a lonely Batman. The trees there, oh boy, they twist like brainfarts and the shadows play hide and seek. I swear I saw a couple of odd shapes once, making me go "Stupid, fat hobbit!" even though it wasn’t a hobbit at all.

Three Algerian migrants killed by train in southern France