Hermann Hesse
Paris, Trocadero. Around 9 AM, the tourist buses fill the streets, letting loose the Italiens, Japanese, Russians and others.
I sit down, and watch the scene of incessant photos being taken by the tourists, the Eifel Tower shining in front of the sun. The morning light gives a foggy look to the scene, the pigeons pick up the crumbs left behind by the tourists.
I think of some images of paradise, that some stories make of precious stones and grandiose architectural works. I am sitting at a corner of Paradise. In this side of the world, it comes with it's street stands selling crèpes, barbes a papa and other sweet delights. With it's african husslers selling Eiffel Towers key chains and other pockets souvenirs.
Paradise is filled with tourists and plastic bric a bracs.
I have 3 hours before my train back to Normandie, so I decide to walk by the Quais, the Seine's border. The house boats, and bateau mouches giving it life.
Signs decorate the streets with the presidential campaign adds. "Vote for me! No, vote for me" they say. Streets filled with shoppers and local parisians going about their daily lives make it an organized cacophonie of languages and car horns. Many people walk around dragging a suitcase behind them, or a backpack on their back.
The world, a large hotel on a small ball.
Invalides, The Opera, a couple bridges laters. Wait for the light to let the street walkers cross the long Concorde ways. Some daring tourists play with the cars, looking like the frog video game.
A dog plays with his mate, the bourgeois walking behind them in their Channel outfits.
The dogs are taking them for a walk, as I make it to my train.
