So sad to bid au revoir to the land of poubelles

IT’S hard to leave a place where the word for rubbish bin is ‘poubelle’. I mean, come on. Poubelle. Could there be a prettier word for such a utilitarian object? A thing stuffed with fag butts, rotting sandwiches, ice cream sticks, sweet wrappers, old newspapers and far worse — and yet still sounds like something from fairyland. Like Tinkerbell’s French cousin.

It’s hard to leave a place where every single beer or wine, even the smallest glass, is accompanied by an offering of olives and miniature salty crackers, heart-shaped and diamond-shaped. Not in the five star hotels, mind, but in the most workmanlike of bars.

And where every teeny cup of coffee comes with a miniature gift of tiny biscuit or chocolate or something to unwrap like a very small present.