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making pipi

August 19, 2011

“She intends to leave Saint-Tropez.” Menicucci’s finger was poised to tap me on the chest. “And I don’t blame her. Do you know” –tap, tap, tap went the finger– “that at any given moment during any day in the month of August there are five thousand people making pipi in the sea?” He shook his head at the unsanitary horror of it all. “Who would be a fish?”

-A Year in Provence

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