Same time next week (and a bit earlier, actually), I’ll be a twenty-eight-year-old countryside redneck living with his parents who gets spat on in the street because he’s the village idiot who lives with his parents at twenty-eight and dresses with city clothes even when the tourism season is over, who can’t fish with his bare hands or give a horse an enema, and who can’t light up a fire with silex to cook.

Same time next week (and a bit earlier, actually), I’ll probably be unlucky enough to still be alive, and I’ll be desperately waiting for my phone line to be activated.

Or maybe a meteor will strike Smallville just as I arrive and I’ll be killed. (I’m too old to get super powers, adults only get death when that happens.)

They must still speak vieux français over there. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to communicate with local rat meat street vendors.

Fortunately city-zens are not immune to the plague at all, so my time there shouldn’t last too long.