There is one peculiar thing missing from the streets of Paris; coffee shops. I’m in a fucking starbucks in Paris because after a one hour walk, I’d been unable to locate the quotidian mélange of espresso and pastries. At least English is spoken, albeit tentatively, as last night I cunning attempted my pizzeria order in French and ended down 35 euros and up 2 extra pies. Apparently coke is a type of pizza here, involving chicken and a manner of pepper…I ordered 2.
