Sarlat, Dordogne, France, early June 2008. A rather modest sized city smack dab in the middle of duck confit and foie gras country. Pristinely maintained cobblestones that hurt the feet, more than one's fair share of slow moving tourists who are only there to buy olives at the market, a well hidden medieval shop with friendly (and very nerdy) employees who are more than happy to share mead and wine samples with young female customers, and an interesting underbelly ice cream shop that doubles as a shot bar for addicted young people during the wee hours. A tattooed guy wearing leather chaps and gauged ears plays bagpipes at the main square several times per day. At Bar "Les Iles," Renaud flirts like the devil, and there is a half-Japanese waiter at a neighboring bar. Beware of the too-friendly American expat woman who will demand your email address.
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