As soon as I reached France, I was inexplicably driven to find a tobacco store to buy some foul cigarettes, and purchase some garlic and onions just to fit in and counter smoker's breath. No, I kid you – I only bought some cigarettes, to fit in with the French, who apparently believe it is anyone’s birthright to smoke at all occasions.
Sadly, I must report not sighting berets, onion/garlic garlands or even moustaches, nor hearing any accordions, which is really a pity (about the accordions, that is). I did hear a saxophonist on the Metro tunnel, and he was playing a French version of “I just called to say I love you” (get it? Clue: it’s instrumental…)
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