My best friend posted today about how he came to live in France and run a B&B.
Like he said, it started 20 years ago, give or take a few weeks, at this institution of higher learning.
We were both writers for The Cowell Fish Wrap, a small paper I helped start, and we covered the antics of this young preacher named "Father Jim" who came and tried, unsuccessfully, to save our college from the perils of alcohol, drugs and pre-marital sex. (I have to give him props, though, for trying his best. Remember, this was 1985...in Santa Cruz of all places.)
Anyway, writing that story, and a shared opinion that The Selecter was the best ska band ever, cemented our friendship.
Fast forward 6 years to Lille, France in a crowded, smoky bar called Le Themis, which had the best collection of American soul, R&B and hiphop vinyl I've ever seen.
He's over visiting me and I introduce him to this really cool girl I know, who, aside from being beautiful, uniquely stylish and hilarious, knows how to speak English.
Wapow! My buddy never had a chance. One hair-raising car trip to a Belgian disco, another visit to Lille in May, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
See, now this is a story. His should have pointed out how he got to France...not just vaguely attribute it to you somehow.
Maybe he didn't want to expose all the details...but too late now, isn't it?
Ha ha ha ha...
I didn't even realise you guys were talking about me. I went to France in the first place because Monsieur was broke, depressed and lonely on the even of Christmas. I was single and working, so had vacation time to spare. In a heroic effort to cheer him up, I flew over on December 26 into Zaventem, the airport in Brussels (whose name sounds like an high blood pressure med).
Post a Comment