On the rue de Verneuil which I easily pass each morning on my way to the flat, there is nestled a very small graffiti-splattered house more often than not mistaken for a cottage where my father took his last whiff of his favourite brand of mentholated oxygen. Here the walls soak in the ink of a babel of translations, all underlined and exclaimed ( Read more... )

With the possible exception of the equator, everything begins somewhere.
[ je ne parle francais ]