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November 2015
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This is Paris...

Paris par Ludovic Bischoff @ Plume Voyage Magazine

It’s not a really nice street. Without charm. There is a bar where I was not going much because there were not always a friendly atmosphere. And a Cambodian restaurant where I wanted to go several times but it was always crowded. Almost as much as its big brother, a little further down the street, that, I have been going to for years. It was already a meeting place for gourmets of Asia before the neighborhood became “fashionable”. That is to say ! I was there a few days before …

In this street without interest, were slaughtered men and women I could have been part of. Passing by, this morning, this anonymous street was no longer. Thousands of flowers and candles were hiding the bullet holes in the pavement. Already vanishing the paltry path of the cowards with the “Kalash”, yet forgotten, overshadowed by candlelight and masked by the scent of flowers. In this street of “Paname”, I found the Parisian spirit among the sidewalk tributes. Yes, these gruff Parisian, always in a hurry and who like to imagine themselves as distant relatives of all Gavroches who have worn out their clogs on the pavement. Parisian, these brats crossing 10 meters from a pedestrian crossing, when the light is green for cars, their cellphones stuck to ear, fag in mouth and cursing against dog droppings … He is like this, the Parisian, he does not care much about anything or anyone. And even those who want to keep him from hanging out on the bar terraces, even when it’s raining or when it’s cold because “it is so nice to sit at a terrace!”

So this morning I smiled seeing bottles of wine among the flowers, on the dried stains of blood. Red wine, white wine and beer. To toast one last time. To our colors: beer, white and red! It’s very Parisian (French), this kind of swagger against death for the enjoyment, every enjoyment. This is Paris, this, laying tattooed subway ticket “Fluctuat Nec Mergitur”amid candles to enter into resistance against those who want Paris to no longer be a celebration. This is Paris, this, writing amid bouquets, « I’m at a terrace and fuck you!”. So, let’s continue to cross the streets out of the pedestrian crossing. We are the only ones to do so. This is Paris…

Ludovic Bischoff

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