A rose is a rose



Giuseppe made friends with an Italo-French florist fifty yards down the road from the flat we were in, in Boulevard Saint Germain, and managed to scrounge three separate bunches of roses during our two-week stay. They were just the way he likes them, blowsy and open, with the petals about to fall. He calls them wild, although there is probably nothing growing that’s less wild than this kind of highly cultivated rose, with the obvious exception of much of the food we’re daily expected to eat.

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