Walking through the old Nice markets near
Palais De Justice is in many ways similar to navigating "shakedown street" at a jamband festival: You're inundated with all these strange stimuli: strange people, strange scents, strange behavior. You get the idea. And the sketch-dar is
all confused as they are speaking French. There is no correlation peak to find because there isn't a reference. Damn!
"Who's got my ... ?!"
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