You can hear frat-calls two and three blocks away, proving incontrovertibly that testosterone and alcohol are substances better left unmixed. By contrast, this neighborhood in Paris boasts a cafe, market, gallery, or pub at the street level in every building. The number of establishments where a young man can get a drink surely exceeds eighty-seven. But for the most part, the festivants are already in the street. There's little disgorging done as the bars and cafes close.
People just mingle away.
And the only public excrement, at least that I concern myself with, is left by Pierre the Poodle and his little buddies. Of which there are many. The police here ride around in little tin cans. And carry no weapons. Though I sleep with the windows open, I barely hear the kind of late-night hooterall I've come to expect in Fell's Point.