Something I deeply enjoy doing on the web, and particularly with weblogs, is following a trail of links and uncover little jewels -- and often true marvels -- along those little random journeys.
While I was watching some photos taken by Jason Kottke and Meg Hourihan in Paris last November, trying to figure out if Meg had finally enjoyed her stay at the City of Light (but not bandwidth) (I'm gentillement mocking her in the comments on that article), I spotted that they went to Marseilles (why can't the Anglosaxons get that name right?) and in Pompignan. On Pompigan, I'm already a reader of Dean Allen, but I discovered Gail Armstrong along the way on Kottke's weblog.
I'm not finished laughing, her weblog cracks me up. Two excerpts:
In other news:
- Claudette P. hung only 6 pairs of underpants on the line last Thursday, instead of the usual 7.
- Mr. and Mrs. Souche are renovating their kitchen. They say it will be blue, but many think that green would be better, to match the living room rug.
- Frédéric will be selling pot in the usual spot behind the school before tonight's Bingo game.
- A follow-up on our story from last week: Arlette's bunion has not improved, and this week she had some pain in her left elbow.
Frédéric will be selling pot in the usual spot behind the school before tonight's Bingo game! This so not what le petit Nicolas wants for us, especially in such a good little province!
And a fabulous post about the history of translations:
[...] it is interesting that a number of historians have suggested that linguistic efforts made by the French in Canada were key to reducing the bloodshed, and led to largely peaceful negotiations. Although I suppose it's legitimate to debate whether any virtue lies in screwing people with words rather than violence.
It is said that French is la langue for love and politics. No wonder why the French kiss is a universal value and that Dominique has a unique capability to put the Honorable Donald out of his mind. Fais l'amour Donald, pas la guerre.