The sunshine is a little shy today, it keeps on tentatively peeking through grey clouds, only to retreat, perhaps perturbed by the spring breeze. The Seine is flowing, looking a little moody, confused by the sky’s swinging temperament. Paris sings its lulling tune at midday. On the menu is fresh baguette and croissants, lettuce, and juicy market strawberries, accompanied by an oozing pungent cheese.
“Excuse me, can I have strawberry?”
We look up, startled by a thick Parisian accent from above. We are sat in front of a ramp and a young, blonde man is staring down at us enthusiastically, leaning on the railing.
“Hmmm?”
“I can ‘ave a strawberry please?” He pauses, and smiles cheekily. “Because, you know, I am pregnant”.
Laughing, bemused, we throw him a strawberry.
“Ss-ank you! Merci!”
And he strolls on, happy to have earned our attention and a strawberry in the process. We don’t see him again.
Some things are lost in translation, or some expressions require cultural awareness to understand them. This is no such example. It is completely odd, even in Paris.
We munch on. I am reassured to see the city of love remains as random as ever.
Below: fleeting moments on that same Parisian portion of daylight.
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