In the ten minutes it took me to find my camera among the fifty million things I felt obliged to bring along on a walk (notebook, wallet, two pens in case one dries out, map, phone, spare batteries, compact, and deodorant, because you never know when you will need armpits that smell like lavender) the fisherman in the foreground caught three tiny, writhing fish. Each time he snagged one, he had to haul in that giant fishing rod, fist over fist, which took ages and impaled several pedestrians on the sidewalk behind him. Once he was within reaching distance of the fish, he slipped a knife out from behind his ear and sliced it free, then tossed it, flopping and flinging, into the cylindrical net in front of him. It was all done with such a businesslike detachment that I felt I couldn't look away. I've got a blog post stewing about how fantastically over-the-top the Lille Christmas celebrations are (completely suited to Megan tastes), but just haven't had the time I need to post it. Meanwhile, some berries, which grow around the perimeter of Faidherbe and give me a little Christmassy shot to the arm every time I pass them by (even if I'm late for twenty appointments, forgot to wipe the stray smear of toothpaste from my chin, have non-lavender-smelling armpits, and can't seem to get my iPod working):
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