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  • You may have had doubts, you may have questioned your own reasoning. You may have felt overwhelmed, abruptly tugged out of your daydreams by the shockwaves of traffic, the sirens, the loud swearing and the impatient honking of horns, the fierce strangeness of it all.

    You may have walked the endless distance from Cimetiere du Père Lachaise to La Tour d'Eiffel and even further, continuing into the darkness, across the Mirabeau bridge and then back and forth across the Seine like an insatiable seagull, watchfully eyeing the names, fervently desiring to catch them, feel them wiggle in your mouth, taste them, chew each name tender and spit it out in the river, devouring another. Grenelle, Rouelle, Bir-Hakeim, Iéna, Debilly, Alma, Invalide, Alexandre III, Concorde; the syllables too slick to catch, the consonants too deep in the murky water for you to get a grip on them. You may have thought that this is not for you, you may have feared that there's no way you'll crack the code, acquire the language, get under the skin of this stylish city.

    Then you hear this, you lean over the brick wall and see that, and you know you're in the right place.
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