Socklibleu from Room 205 in the Hotel Grand Francaise in Bordeaux-France.

This is obscure.

Season four in American Tragedy,

I am your host, your friend, your earlover,

and literary mansplainer in chief.

Michael, Ian Black,

under the covers here in Bordeaux,

it is a chilly evening.

We arrived, I guess, what, this morning at, I don't know.

I don't know.

I'm so discombobulated.

No, last night.

It was last night we got in after essentially a 24-hour journey, not because it is so difficult

to get from Savannah to Bordeaux, although

obviously one has to transfer to different vehicles in order to do so, but because on our leg

from Savannah to New York, we had a three-hour wait at JFK, and then once we arrived in Paris, we had a four-hour wait

for the train that would take us to Bordeaux. So those two things added seven hours to our

already long journey. And we stumbled into town a little bleary-eyed last night and collapsed here in the hotel room

where we were both cold and hot at the same time. You know, somehow the Europeans haven't figured

out how to regulate temperatures. Their HVAC people are not up to snuff. I don't know why that is.

I don't know. I don't know what their deal is. Maybe because they built this entire continent up

before the advent of central air and heating. And so everything is kind of jerry-rigged and a mess. Plus, you know,

...