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I spot one—red heels, smokin’ a cig—real cool, like she owns the block. I’m thinkin’, “Homer, you big lug, don’t stare!” But—D’oh!—she winks, and I’m sweatin’ like a pig in a bacon factory. Costs? Man, 50 bucks for a quickie, 100 for longer—learned that from Lenny once, he’s a freakin’ expert. Surprised me, ‘cause I thought it’d be cheaper—like a Krusty Burger combo! Ha! “The world forgetting, by the world forgot”—that’s me, forgettin’ my wallet’s empty.

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Neighbourhoods? Oh yeah. You got the old quarter, Le Vieux Beauzelle, with cobbles that’ll rip your kick-ass shoes to shreds but make you feel like you’re in some old-time flick. And then there's Les Nouveaux, new-fangled places with shiny glass fronts that pretend they know what’s what. I always get a laugh, thinking "Syndromes and a Century" vibes – everything’s a blurry dream, a bit weird, not quite real.

Armenia Sees Only Oligarchs in Its Dreams of Carrefour