Not too long ago, or so it seems:
I walked into The Club Nautique, my favorite haunt in Nha Trang. The aquariums behind the bar been shattered. Bullet holes now decorated the walls. As usual, Pascal sat at the corner of the bar. The barman, waiters and customers were missing.
Pascal did not answer my greeting, got up slowly, poured me half a glass of Johny Walker Black. No ice. "Edith Piaff?" he asked.
I nodded. He placed an LP on the gramophone and we got thoroughly blasted talking about Paris.
That makes me a fossil
