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In London, beers in a pub. My stomach is acid and my feet distant.


Far off, in a thick fog, we tell me the French woman.


She's beating and elegant, it's Catherine Deneuve or Bardot. She is the mother and the mistress, the sensitive and the irascible.It's Piaf and Barbara.


I smile, chuckle silly.


The first time when I was woman, it's when I said to myself that I was in love. Of an American. Who saw me through my noisy laughter, my painted nails, my carmine lips (Gabrielle by Chanel, everyday and forever), my very patriotic culinary tastes, my love for french authors.

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