Also, I want to point out that I am back in action. The PowerShot 400 is dead, long live the Ixus 60. Because the blog must go on and I can't do without my images.
As it appears, Le Pain Quotidien isn't the only (or the closest, or the best) breakfast place in my neighborhood. There's a little shop with foggy windows on Place Brugmann which deceptively calls itself "boulangerie." But step inside and you will see one huge wooden table surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones. You'll hear German, English, Spanish, Italian, as well as French (with both French and Belgian accents) and Flemish. All of this with the added value of it not being part of a chain - I am a bo-bo (remember those? The new dandies?), so shoot me.
It must've been around ten this morning when I stopped there. I only meant to get a bit of bread and I ended up sitting down for tea, orange juice and a pain au chocolat, while I read a book purchased earlier at Candide, the multilingual bookstore. It was lovely.
This English guy and I wanted to get the Sunday Times or the Observer or something ("Sil voo play, le Sunday Times?"), but the international newspapers distributors were on strike today (huh...?). So i spent a few minutes browsing through the Francophone books. Found this one, which poses an interesting question:
(Whatever happened to French writers?) Yeah, that I would LOVE to find out. Too self-absorbed, maybe? So desperate to write something new without renouncing the classic standards they become repetitive and boring? Who the hell knows. I refused to get all worked up on a sunny Sunday morning, so I placed it back on the shelf. I walked out with The Concubine's Monologue, a 21-page rant about love, lust, passion and unhappiness. Amusing, at best.
And this is all from me tonight. Happy week, people.
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