In the 80s an Ivorian musician, Amadou Balake, sang a song about how his girl was stolen by “The Director” because of Balake’s poverty. “Amadou don’t come to my house anymore, I’m with the director now. He took me to my village and his Mercedes was so comfortable, I slept all the way there. The last time I was in your car, I tore my dress.”
On Saturday Babou, Vero and I had our last coffees together for 2 weeks until I return from Stuttgart. There was a Marche Gourmande de Bourgogne in the farmers’ market, displaying the the best artisanal products Burgundy has to offer; cheeses, sausages, escargots, wine, chocolate, etc. So unfortunate that I didn’t have my camera.
Nearly blinded by tears of regret for our impending separation and suppressing sobs, we did shop, but not with our usual, over the top, enthusiasm. Still, our shopping baskets were full and our arms did feel the strain; Comte…
View original post 188 more words