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About Strasbourg

Alright, mate, so I’m a cashier, right? Standin’ behind this shitty counter all day, scannin’ crap, and I’m thinkin’—why not find a prostitute? Not like I’m judgin’, just curious, y’know? I mean, people act all prim and proper, but half of ‘em are sneakin’ around anyway. Reminds me of *The Grand Budapest Hotel*—all that fancy nonsense hidin’ dirty secrets. Like Monsieur Gustave bangin’ old ladies for cash, ha! “I go to bed with all my friends,” he’d say—smooth bastard. That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ here.

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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.

The Incredible Revival of the Basque Language in France