From room

At the grand opera hotel here in Toulouse,

this is obscure.

Season four in American tragedy. I'm your host, your friend, your ear lover, and literary, mansplainer in chief, Michael Ian Black, reporting today from a room that, well, looks darn right. Moulon Rougee. You know, emphasis on rouge.

Painted red, and it's got a big painting as a headboard that looks as though it depicts a dom from maybe the turn of the previous century.

And as I look out my window, I see 19th century edifices and the whole vibe of it is moulin-ruge.

And I don't hate it.

I'll tell you that much.

I don't hate it at all.

We arrived in Toulouse yesterday afternoon.

It is a fabulous city.

I wasn't sure what to expect. People said,

oh, Toulouse is so beautiful. You're going to love Toulouse. But people tell me all kinds of

shit. That turns out to be a lie. But Toulouse is as advertised, just a lovely metropolitan area.

We strolled at streets today.

I did so last night while Martha was attending to errands.

And I came back into the chamb and I said, hotel room, and I said, this place is

fucking great.

And it's great by night and it's great by day.

Just a terrific city.

Now look, how much of it have I actually seen?

Not very much.

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