The ‘French’ Bakery, Hamra, Beirut, Lebanon

French was far in her past, when she was a girl in convent school.  The bakery had reasonable croissants, so I came regularly.  She flirted incorrigibly.  I asked to take her picture, and she said, “On Wednesday.”  When I arrived she was as flawlessly coiffed and made up as usual, but with a vest and toreador pants.  She always gave me a cookie when I left.

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