Youdon't believe me? Just try getting off a train at Gare de Lyon and findinga taxi driver who can speak French properly.That was my first experience...of Paris.I had spent a year living in la Bourgogne, (which now considers itself partof real France) and was due to meet with Serge, the son of a teacher calledLaurence, who I had made friends with in Beaune. At least that was what Iwas told.Laurence had, quite sensibly, as soon as she had learnt to drive, persuadedher Papa to give her some. Honestly, I was relieved, it was one less confrontation to have with Zoey. We ordered room service in as Zoey crabbily ranted about the weather and not making it to the beach. A couple of hours later, both of us showered and the rain showing no signs of stopping, Zoey, clearly frustrated at the waist of a day, turned to me and said, Fuck it. Fuck what? I asked. This, she pointed to the weather as she began getting undressed. I looked at her perplexed. What are you doing? Well if we cant go to. More

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