“What?” the lad replied, his manner turning to disbelief with an aggressive hint of ‘pissed off’. “You don’t sell fucking beer. What sort ...f shithole is this that doesn’t sell beer?”“This sort.” I replied standing up straight as Katy stuttered for a reply. “We sell coffee, tea, soft drinks, water, snacks, but no alcohol.”“Fuck this,” the lad said and walked back to the group announcing in a loud voice, “They don’t sell fucking beer.” Several voices of disbelief answered him and most of them. I was the one who broke the silence this time. Stretching out my hand;'My name is Alan by the way.''Michael.''Nice to meet to you Michael. So what brings you to Paris?'For the next twenty minutes we talked, mostly about music. Michael was reticent to talk a lot about himself except that his full name was Michael Pitt and he was in Paris acting in a film by an Italian director whose name he refused to disclose. I on the other hand told him a lot about myself and how and why I had ended up in. More

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