It’s surprising how many people are out walking. People stroll the digue all day. Well, except between noon and 2:30 when no one does anything but eat lunch. Then the digue is deserted. I watch couples, families, and young children walking along, wondering why no one even wants to look at me. Is it that obvious I’m American? Vincent and his mother said the night before that with my handlebar moustache and beret—both of which I’ve worn for years—I look more French than they do. Yet even those who do look at me on the digue quickly turn away.

     Faux pas alert!

     The intra-muros is fascinating. Narrow cobblestone streets with shops lining both sides, geared towards the tourists yet not overly touristy. It’s actually a dense residential area with many apartments above the shops. I couldn’t imagine living there during the summer. Or more correctly, I can imagine the nightly ritual of opening the window and dumping the dishwater onto the heads of strolling tourists while yelling "Sacre bleu!" as if this is a time-honored St-Malo tradition. Which it might be.

     I just want to get the feel for the place, so I roam aimlessly, but something’s wrong. Besides not seeing any mugs, I don’t see the first sign of Jerry Lewis. No T-shirts, no postcards, no lunch boxes, no nothing. And neither of the two movie theaters I pass after I leave the intra-muros are showing his films.

     At the checkout counter I watch the woman run my purchases over the scanner. I pay her with the unfamiliar currency. She pushes my things aside, takes a plastic bag, and hands it to the woman who’s next in line without even glancing at me. Suddenly I realize I’m supposed to bag my own groceries. She doesn’t tell me, help me, or correct me, but she sure manages to make her blunt point. Fumbling, I quickly throw my purchases in a couple of bags, secure in the knowledge that, Jerry Lewis or not, I am indeed in France.