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Sitting at a café in Montmartre as Jessye finally gets a break and writes a few postcards.

Sacre Coeur peeks up above the buildings in the mirror.

For as French as this café was, for whatever reason, the two times we went there they were playing Mexican music.

The first time we arrived, we stood in the doorway waiting for a table and then the tiled floor opened up and a small elevator with a crate of cola surfaced.
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