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 ... ?!"