I threw on a jacket, yanked on my gloves and sprinted to reception (uphill in snow, both ways). I had to ask for directions, but after dodging heavy machinery twice and braving arctic conditions, I made it to the office. A sign said reception was downstairs, so down the stairs I went.
Only to discover that there was not a soul to be found in the office.
Apparently office hours are from 10:55am to 11:am and 4:30pm to 4:31pm. I suppose the French need more free time for bread-eating, surrender and nakedity.
I thought, "Well, maybe they left it lying around anyway," so I looked behind the desk and in all the cupboards and drawers, as well as in the wall-safe and behind some hideous paintings. Nothing.
It has to be here somewhere. |
Girard must have taken it with him when he went to the bakery.
So I went home and
I was going to take photos of the adventure of fetching my visa, but my camera's battery is dead. Enjoy the Dylan Moran video instead.
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