It says 15mins until the next tram. Not very frequent.
While walking over the bridge by the tram track, this graffito caught my eye:
A tram approaches a stop:
The eagle-eyed tram spotter will have spotted that while there are overhead wires on most bits, there aren't any on the bridge. It must have batteries or something.
The Au Lapin qui Fume restaurant is excellent. Here's their signature entree, lapin terrine:
I know that this says: No Swimming, but what does the bit underneath say?
Il fait pleut. It's just a light rain, not cold, but it caught me unawares and I ducked into l'Indian Bar Cafe. Did I tell you that I like rain? Setting the scene, the usually bustling Rue Blanqui is all but deserted. I'm the only one sitting outside under the awning. A rubbish lorry came by and one of the guys waved a hearty bonjour, to which I replied enthusiastically. Of course, they had been waving at the cafe proprietor behind me. Awkward.
A man in his sixties comes out to smoke. He has a phlegmatic mien. I remark, man to man, that it is raining. He doesn't understand. I try again and this time he understands what I've said, but not why I've said it. He goes back to his rollup, his weary view of humanity undisturbed.
Oh God, Blue Shirt has arrived. Before I know it I've welcomed him to my table and bought him a coffee. Why, why, why??
He's not a popular man. If I carry on encouraging him I'll become unpopular too.