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About Nantes

So I roll up, tires screechin’ like Max’s rig, peepin’ the scene. Red’s there—heels high, attitude higher—countin’ stacks like she’s warlord of the block. I’m thinkin’, “YOLO, gotta play this cool.” She spots me, smirks, and I’m like, “Damn, she’s quick!” Reminds me of that line, “I live, I die, I live again!”—she’s out here survivin’, hustlin’. Kinda respect it, ya feel me? But also, ugh, pissed me off—she’s dodgin’ my questions like I’m the feds or somethin’.

A week in the Haute-Loire, September 2012

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Strange, is it not? The very air of Aurec sings with history. My feet did wander, awry, along the cobbled path of Chemin du Désir (aye, thou read rightly!). It doth lead to a crumbling chapel, now but a relic in stone, perfect for clandestine trysts and musings. Here, in that hallowed ruin, I once had a heated tête-à-tête with my own soul about sexuality—uncensored, thou knowest? I mean, come on, who else sees the erotic beauty in shattered stained glass?

The Tour de France has Overcome Worse