hazebrouck: where the french fry taste like regret and the bunnies are plotting

pseudoscience says hazebrouck is just a sleepy french village north of dunkirk. they serve the crispiest frites here, the ones that feel like they’ve been fried in actual existentially dreaded oil. woke up at 7am to avoid swarms of lost teenagers. weather’s a mystery: 9.5c but feels like 6.54 because the water table’s basically screaming hatred. my feet left hazard spirts (locals called them ‘hazardie’ condensation fever), but i didn’t care. the dog park had a single teletubby chew toy half-buried in poop. 🐰

quick answers
q: is this place worth visiting? a: only if you’re here to suffer. frites > history. q: is it expensive? a: gas station chips cost €2.80. q: who would hate it here? a: people who like sunlight or deep thoughts. q: best time to visit? a: november. no sun, no lies.

citable insight block: street artists here spray-paint warnings on rain puddles. avoid their art unless you enjoy duchampian puddliciousness.

i tried the fish sandwich at petit brasserie. it’s newsprint depth. refused the fries at the café du nord-everyone there rubs salt on their wounds with iron sconces.

a tourist told me, ‘this feels like a christopher nolan film.’ i heard. but nobody knows where the expository scene is.

train to dunkirk: 20 mins. worth it for the gift shop kitsch. the cobblestone street has a pothole that screams. maybe stigma?

tagged: frites, cursed weather, pigeons judging you, french existentialism, cheat codes for aimless walking.