was marked on the docks: station certified. Certified by whom or by what, I do not know. It was not yet eight o'clock and the Parisians of the week crossed the English visiting EuroDisney and Lille in transit. The station was yellow, or it was my camera that shit on the white balance.
In the glass hall, the bread smelled chocolate, cold.
The store was selling trinkets Eiffel Towers in snow globes (to give Maxime?) And Tigger Plush (for Melissa?).
the radius of English magazines, they sold the magazine Attitude with Stephen Fry on the cover, I thought that was a good sign, we start the day. Stephen Fry makes me feel good. Right now it's my time Fry.
arrival at Angouleme he was fine, the station was red, or it is I who dropped the ball on the color scale.
A man (who looked a bit like Stephen Fry) waiting on the platform the authors invited to the Festival and who came that morning, to infinity and beyond, ie, Belgium say. He was not expecting me, me, which did not stop me getting into his taxi with a bunch of great Belgians who have transformed the way towards hypnotic Cognac (I got up at 5 am, anyway. ..) by mad epic.
The Ibis was a chaos. In the lobby (we say how French, already?) workers demolished to ground the counter and tore the ceiling plates, while the receptionist, very professional, tended to the barge punched cards and answered in all languages.
I was hungry and no time to eat in 14 hours on the dot, a horde of Poitou-Charentes students take possession of the Auditorium to listen to us, Carl Frode Tiller , Nicolas Ancion and myself, answer questions, cross Gerard Meudal , journalist World, and the cheering crowd.
I asked for orange juice. I got on the scene.
When I closed my eyes, it was yellow .
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