|
Minutes in Paris are
precious. Time is money, isn’t it? And is money not the nerve of all the small
and big wars, created by all those who want to destroy Paris and then repair it?
EVERYBODY works in Paris, even the “CLOCHARD” (bum or homeless if you like).
Look at him, he behaves as an aristocrat displaying all his properties on a
bench in the Champs-Elysees. Notice how he makes regularly the inventory of his
possessions and food basket, without caring a bit about the curious and
surprised glances of the by passers. When he is through making up the list of
what he possesses and what he don’t, he will lie down, in the sun, to observe
with a lot attention the movements of the clouds in the sky. Sooner or later he
will receive his salary from a charitable soul.
Toil and moil, drudge, giving it a kick: all verbs the Parisian knows well, in
spite of his notation at the working conditions stock market. He conjugates it
in all times, all weathers, all trends, mostly in the present mode, seldom in
the conditional mode. It’s a question of survival.
Some work in a rocket speed, possessed from the rush devil. These Apocalypse
riders manage to find a way to circulate in a stream of cars obstructing all
possible streets and avenues of Paris. They deliver a letter to the other side
of the city, which would take 48 hours otherwise, and are already back at their
starting point while the car driver, deadly irritated about their dare and
freedom, is still waiting for the traffic light to turn green, allowing him to
move a few yards.
At the complete other side of the speed spectrum is the STREET-SWEEPER. The
municipality may have disguised him as a mint candy, he still shows the typical
features of al his predecessors of the 19th century. A protective overall and a
billiard green cap don’t change the man. His rhythm and movements are those of
a melancholic half-monkey. We can understand the man: in his sad eyes all the
memories of his native Senegal country pass by. One movement in the street and
his daydreams are shattered. Everything is pretence for him to stop the images.
He prefers to drag his working tool behind him than to push it in front of him
and becomes suddenly very skilful when he can offer spontaneously a light for a
retired pensioner sitting on a bench in a park. Thanks to our sweeper the
barometer of the cleanliness of Paris is in constant raise.
The nephew of the man with the broom is the window-cleaner, also a hard worker
but in a complete different field. Today you will see him on the boulevard
Saint-Michel, toileting the yellow signboard of Mac Do, tomorrow he is the
foreman on the flanks of the glass pyramid of the Louvre.
But what is, in the name of God, that strange, Italian looking two-wheeler,
steered by another green man with a white helmet where you an read ‘Propreté
de Paris”? That infernal machine is nothing else than a dog-shit collector,
result of a thorough technical changement. The earlier brushes were replaced by
a very powerful vacuum cleaner, sort of sucking system, which allows the
cleaners to avoid the numerous disadvantages of assembling dog-shit, like
remaining shit tracks on the street….Clever idea isn’t it? 5,000 km of
street sides were already treated like that since 1986, which doesn’t take
away the responsibility of the dog owners which means that they have to learn
their darlings to do it in the street gutter or in a cardboard bow that they
should take with them. For sale in all better drug stores. Every Parisian is in
fact an alert cleaner…-)
Old paper, cardboards, used clothes, outdated medicines, nothing escapes the
voracity of the collect services. The even declared war to unlawful poster
sticking on the walls or to scrape of the nasty “graffiti” from so-called
street poets painted on public walls like if it was lined paper. I know more
exciting jobs.
|
