in a french taxi (recalled)

Riding into Nice from the airport, on a road hugging the bright blue water, the driver wanted to talk, so much so that he tolerated my halting French. I told him I was writing a novel, and he said, “I’ve had such a life, I should write about it someday.” I asked about the life and he said, “Oh, it’s a long story,” waving it off. I said, “Aren’t they all long stories?” But he still wouldn’t tell me.

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