There is some stinky cheese fermenting by the open window. I am going to eat said stinky cheese. If I am alive in the morning I will be a happy man.

I went up to the English bar, The Bombardier, near Rue Clovis, for a pint or two. I could not decide my next destination. My father, and maybe my brother, will be in Stuttgart for the Ireland vs. Germany soccer match on Saturday. If I was in the vicinity I'd give them a shout, but I'm not too sure where I'll be. Madrid and Nice were both calling to me and though I really would prefer Madrid, that would leave me a good deal distant from any other location, Stuttgart or not. It would also require a hefty train journey overnight, not a bad thing (saves on hotel), but a long trek nevertheless. Anyhow The Bombadier gave me some head space. It's a nice spot, but quiet.

The Ghost of ParisNow I still am left without destination. I am tempted to just go on the spur of the moment anywhere that appears on the train schedule, though then I must trust to luck with regard to accommodation. I'll see in the morning. Cheese awaits (yes, Gromit, it's nice cheese).