Today, Paris has been crap. Fat. Some days everything. At 11am it was already night. The end of the world. It has rained cats and dogs: du jamais vu. The Flood. On the way to the French daily class, I crossed four umbrellas stolen by the wind. Some girls ran heels help me saved as a shipwreck, rimmel down. Two hours later, after leaving fern school, still wearing his jeans soaked. fern I had a noon start of absurd and embarrassing afternoon. For lunch, I bought a can of tuna Franprix. It is Monday: Museums closed. Under the Beaubourg, today I wanted to.
And I've fern stuck to tweet. I read that already 94,000 deaths fern in Syria and the UK already planned a war against Al Assad before the uprising began. Then, it occurred to me that I could go see Nada in the gallery. She introduced me to artists Syrians who I interviewed for a documentary failed, like so many other things. I must tell you that this film has not advanced, but still thinking about Syria. Deserves an explanation, Nada. Gallery, pianist and double absolute Jodie Foster: they are stuck. Has just opened a new exhibition: "Syria: fern my forgotten land." From a photographer or an unpronounceable fern name for me, I am no expert, but I have studied Arabic. I've seen it advertised on facebook and I thought: do not forget, you do not forget. It was my time to "return" to Syria.
Fast, which makes me late and European photo Nada, is on the other side of Paris, near the Invalides. I dropped to the supermarket next door, I bought a cheap umbrella, another lost umbrella, yes, and I crossed the square of Stalingrad (the battle) to the subway line 2. I stopped the subway 15 minutes fern to La Chapelle. Patients market. Shit. It's raining tropical heat: two tropical heat in the subway. Also, I screwed and I-plenty warm. The metro launches: the world seems to turn back. But, beyond fern a station, fern a canned voice says: "Terminus." This train does not accept passengers. And just like that, "the voice" made us out. What power, "the voice." All out, bird, spat on the platform with our umbrellas and our rush.
The platform has become a collection of souls in a hurry and confused foreigners. Spend a policeman: "worth wait, sir". Not. Not worth the wait. I go outside: rain. I'm in Antwerp and resign in Europe. But I can not stop thinking about the 94,000.
Returning to walk, fate gave me a postcard sad shop name Syria. A wedding in Palmyra, an improbably happy event. Sleepless night: try a little Proust. Thank you, Marcel.
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