There's a lot I complain about as a resident Parisian.
And then there's this: A classical pianist who just sets out his instrument on the sidewalk and plays for the public.
He was pretty good, too.
I moved to France when I was 21 years old. I rented a decrepit studio apartment with a Turkish toilet on the landing. When my father learned of this rather primitive setup, he wrote me a worried letter and asked "What the hell are you doing? Writing a novel?" 30 years later, I'm still here. I took my older daughter 'round to see this apartment-from-my-youth. She looked at the building and remarked "You left California for that? Who the hell were you? Eugene de Rastignac?"
It might be like my suede shoes days - I check the forecast VERY carefully.
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