Thursday, March 09, 2006

 

Putain de velo


There’s something of a responsibility about being French. Perhaps it comes with all the weight of the human rights’ declaration, or the birth place of all revolutions, or the height of the Eiffel Tower. No idea, but it is a fact.I have often seen the French pushing their barely-walking child off a cliff after shoving skis on their tiny feet. The poor thing cries in that strike-protesting manner that comes with their genes, but there’s no point. You have to face your fears and achieve, from a very young age. All these expectations and the burden of responsibilities could obviously not come without a price. They become people who will seldom tolerate mistakes. Particularly if you’re outside their circle of friends and family, sport mates, work mates or others.

In what other country would a neighbor slip a letter into my mailbox telling me that she was bothered by my footsteps, which she can hear since she lives directly below me on a building that is older than the two of us together? You should see her face when she’s coming down the stairs in the morning, all fresh and high, ready to start working bright and early and show her frenchness by being at work on time. I have just entered the building and move slowly up the stairs, bug-eyed and sleepy, trying hard to focus on the expectation of a nice breakfast soaked in caffeine. From the top of the stairs the light of judgment day arrives: her lightning eyes fire condemnation and the string of her thoughts passes in front of me. So very clear, I can read it: I know what you did last night! I bet she was waiting all night to hear my footsteps. Probably good part of the early morning hours too. She must hate me so much for keeping her disappointment waiting.

About an hour later I was strolling in the main square, heading to the bus stop. A poor poor creature had locked his or her bike close to a tree, where hundreds of others have done the same at many other times. Another guilty one bites the dust. The construction workers landed their truck just next to it, ready to start digging out the tree and do whatever it is they spend hours digging and hammering for. Oh crime of crimes… the construction workers did their job: they were ready and on the spot, at work on time, so they had every right and authority to demand perfection from everyone else. And there was a bike there, owned by someone who couldn’t possibly know he would be leaving the faithful two-wheeler in someone’s way. Out came the saws and the hammers, I couldn’t stand to watch. I knew there'd be no mercy.

“Putain de vélo!”- I heard as I walked away...


# posted by PB @ 8:30 AM 0 comments

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