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35 Saint-Malo I like to be around people speaking French to their speckled spaniels at the crêperie with the galettes de sarrasin and a sea-finch swooping through blurred sun on glossy tiles under gables and chimney-stacks up near the blue. I can hear the people and talk back to them enough to ask them whether the old church with steeple and gargoyles has been burnt out since the SecondWar. It would be nice to know if I’d come for nothing, looking for Christ’s blood in its golden vial at the cathedral in Fécamp above Le Havre. I love Le Havre’s muscular exploitation of the eloquence of concrete. Two hours from surfers’ paradise at Omaha Beach, in Saint-Malo at the Café Gaufrerie Sandwicherie, Hector crowns my vanilla glace in its cornet with fresh whipped cream and a blue plastic spoon. ...

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