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About Montpellier

So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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In the park of the Town Hall, next to the Val Seille castle, the Théâtre de Verdure welcomes spectators on its stone bleachers.

Man, Courthezon is my playground. Even after long massages I see new stories. Dreams meet reality in a flick of a candle. Every sigh is a memory.

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