Sitting at a table on a sidewalk cafe at Le Sully, with a massive arch to my left, I watch. Paris is a city of movement, akin to NY, with all sorts of characters walking by.
A South Asian selling garlic and lettuce on top of wooden crates on the sidewalk. A tranny, blond hair glistening, her fuchsia bookbag bobbing behind her. Four-man squads of soldiers stroll by, most a couple of decades old at most, their automatic weapons slung forward, index finger intently placed above the trigger.
A brotha walked by in a loose-fitting suit, harking back to the zoot suit days in its panache. A long corridor looms forward, brightly colored decorations line it along with Afghani barbershops and Mauritian restaurants. A hooker, white and black leopard-print top, black leggings, makes the rounds along the boulevard.
Men with glittering jewelry, too much gel in their hair, chat energetically, smoking stoges as they take in the sights.
Bikes blur past. Pigeons swoop and take off. Pedestrians stare. They stop. They glance. Junkies kick their schpiel. Homeless languish in the brisk afternoon. Toddlers amble by under the watchful guidance of bobo parents.
There are a thousand pigeons under the arch, each crawling over the next, scrounging for today's scraps.
