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The launderette by my flat in Belleville sum up Paris for me. You put your clothes in the machine and then, committing the machines’ number into memory, you walk to the different machine in a different room and feed them coins. Someone could steal your stuff while this was going on but the beggar lady who lives there will stop them. Though she’s barred from the café next door, she put in a good word for me with the owner. She told him the reason which I had never greeted him in French on walking in wasn’t because I was rude, but England. So he took to crossing the bar whenever I entered, shaking my hand and roared “Bonjour, Anglais” until I gave in and began to preempt him. Now we get on famous. Paris is all about following ritual. Everything – from how you feed a washing machine, to the way you greet someone, or the way you enter a bar. There’s a café near here where the customers spend hours discussing about the food. They are pompous and ridiculous and I long to being one of them, and never will.
Ex: line1: sum -> sums
Ex: line1: sum -> sums