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About Nantes

Anyhow, I’m wafflin’—she’s tappin’ her foot, I’m sweatin’ like a pig. “What’s it to be, blondie?” she snaps. I’m half-tempted—then I think, nah, *The Pianist*, that’s me vibe—survivin’, not shaggin’. “I must play, I must!”—Szpilman’s voice in me noggin. So I leg it—yep, scarper sharpish, leavin’ her gobsmacked. “Bloody toff!” she yells. I’m cacklin’—what a berk I am!

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After the rain, the sun comes back out. I’m feeling all kinds of inspired. I wander over to Place Saint-Corentin. It’s buzzing! Street performers, artists, and food stalls everywhere. I see this guy painting. His art? Wild! I’m like, “Dude, you’re killing it!” He smiles, and I’m like, “Can I buy that?” He says, “Only if you can handle the price.” I laugh, but inside I’m like, “I’m broke, man!”

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