but much of the toilet paper is pink...

a honeymoon over and a crisis of cake, there are but a few minor french matters that still require some adjustment; and while perhaps the underlying feeling has colored the tone of the past couple writings, I only have to remind myself of this entry's title...

there is but one internet provider here in brittany, and it took 3 weeks to get the necessary assistance from their anti-customer customer service. though now that it's up (and much to the relief of my admittedly dependent state), I find it still to sometimes run at only an escargot pace. also, the local grocery store closes for lunch, sundays, mondays, and holidays; and the majority of businesses shut down while the owners take their summer-long vacations. in a small town like bazouges, the bartender is often the florist, and may also own the only dry-cleaner for miles; meaning their vacation can leave you sober and smelly, and without a daisy to brighten your day. and worse still, even your train or bus may be effected during these sluggish months, though I've personally been fortunate enough to avoid any extent of this trouble. nevertheless, it's the dark side to a consumer's end of a socialist spectrum, and I wonder to myself if it's something to ever get used to...
one year later, sandy's still saying no.

yet, there is still this outside these windows:


...and an experience of a different sort as this past saturday night, I accompanied sandy, yann, and leon to a seemingly random local party held in bazouges's center. here, spirits were high to the tune of some surprisingly recognizable music, played along with an even shocking amount of R&B and rap... more amusingly still, you'll find none of that familiar censuring as few people understand the words.
tonight and under the sounds of p.diddy, rough and tumble kids play running games in the street, while beer and kir are poured and those glasses clink amongst a buzzing laughter. for this small bretagne town, I hear surprisingly many english accents throughout these pitched tents of mismatched pattern, and the string of lights hanging within shines on faces of a variety of age (though most are fairly young or at least equally as old). there's a farmer type to the left of me with a grizzly beard and the lack of one eye, and to my right is a younger man smiling and so showing a set of those typecast british teeth. I am told stories of husbands whose wives left them to take care of their 5+ kids and questions of if you've gone in on your pig for the september slaughter. still, to top it all, the night ends not only with my watching the garbage fill with heaping piles of mussel shells, but also an impromptu raffle involving prizes of giant sausages and potted plants. finishing my beer, I still revel in the night while passing the now quiet moonlit streets of this quaint french town.