Swedish humour.

Off to Toulouse for the night. We leave the large, town unfriendly, 4x4 at home and set off in the battered old Volkswagen. The doorman at the hotel, resplendent in top hat and tails,  looks at us snootily with a mixture of contempt and amazement. He peers briefly inside the car and then beats a hasty retreat. His body language suggests that he'd like us to disappear. Maybe he's alarmed by the rear carpet with its immovable dog hairs or the equally immovable stains on the back seat where Digby used to snore and drool contentedly away.  No denying that our trusty old health hazard on wheels is a somewhat incongruous sight amongst the Porsches and Mercedes lined up outside. 

'' The font '' shouts after the rapidly disappearing figure . '' Young man ! Could you please park this for me ?
Oh and do be careful with it ". This all said with the warmest of smiles. Swedish  humour . The top hatted young man mutters something inaudible under his breath and the old VW disappears from the front of the hotel into the anonymity of the carpark amazingly quickly.

Toulouse a lovely , and largely unknown, city. Like Barcelona but without the crowds. Outside the higgledy piggledy cathedral the most wonderful cake shop.  In the cloisters of the convent they're growing all sorts of squash. A real medieval garden.