a trip to RENNES

Rennes is where i'd initially wanted to be stranded in france. However, I was quite randomly allocated my little town. At five past eleven today, I went to the little train station  and bought a ticket en route for excitement and discovery: Rennes.
I wrote a letter to my best university friend, who is currently located up in the cold northernmost outpost of civilization: Newcastle, England. I sat opposite a curly haired little girl who looked about eleven. I'd watched her anxious parents put her on the train and wave at her encouragingly through the glass for about five minutes while waiting for the train to depart. She kept staring at me in that innocent burning-gaze curiosity that only children can get away with, peeping at the letter which i was writing in enticing multi-coloured fine tip pens. I guess I to her was the mysterious romantic novelesque indapendant girl who captured her imagination. I was always fascinated by older girls at her age in any case, and the world they inhabited, so unknown to me.
When i arrived, my friend was at the station to meet me. We've met up three times now, and i hope is this transforming our aquaintance into a friendship, although i still feel nervous about making conversation flow. Being one on one does force you to bond whether you wish too or not. She's friendly to me and seems to enjoy our meet ups as much as me, which is important, as I'd hate to think i was boring her. She seems to have a dry yorkshire sense of humour to go with her accent, and has a rather cynical tone and mild hostility to the world which perhaps hints at an underlying malcontentment.
We got the metro to the city centre and enjoyed a crepe in one of the brilliant crepe cafes located in a pretty square. In the middle of the cobbled square was a fantastical carousel, which at night became illuminated with yellow-white bulbs flashing and glowing in the darkness invitingly. Rows of tables were layed out in the square- a book fair. I bought Victor Hugo's "Notre-dame de Paris" and a book by Japanese author Ryu Murakami, translated into french. Now it's just a matter of reading them.
We browsed round a few shops, including a dusty narrow DVD store. Up a couple of stone steps a heavy door led into this library of film, our arrival announced by a jangly hanging door-chime. I wasn't interested in buying a film- really I just wanted to stroke the cat. I had visited him on my last visit to Rennes, and this truly witchy cat had enticed me back.
He was sat ontop of an old bulky computer monitor, and when i roused him he miaowed at me with sleepy pleasure. I asked his owner- a grey haired but surprisingly young looking, friendly-vampire? shop-owner his name. The cat's name i mean: it was Grim.
Grim got up and stretched for me. He was missing tufts and fur and you could see his greyish skin stretched over his skeleton underneath. He was friendly and loveable despite his appearance, and he invited me to stroke him and purred deeply, and with a certain wisdom of the world, i thought.