Here is a text for love places that have lost their lives. Nobody notices them and yet they surround us with all their sadness. The sadness of no longer living, to paraphrase Lino Ventura. They are everywhere in the country, in our neighborhoods but also in our inner cities.
J'me strolled in the town where I grew up. " It is beautiful this coffee Vauban"
" is where your father reads his newspaper and his coffee is "
tastes are passed from father to son.
" Hotel And next? What is it? Hotel de Paris, yet it is a nice name; and more up Alsace-Lorraine ... is made worse as the location . "
Back to domus. As far back as the paterfamilias remember, years after the war where he was from the Saint Louis School Bisson off until today when he sits sometimes on the terrace at his side , this hotel never had the flaps open. Its rooms still feel the fear of aerial bombardment and its windows were the last to see people running with large suitcases and start cycling in the countryside to buy a large loaf of bread, sliced meat or vegetables. The phone number on the door of the building is still 6 figures while a book reservations throne on a table in the lobby.
And I am weak in front of this building, so small. " If you knew how I would like to visit you, my dear. " I feel helpless. It must be my old-fashioned side that knocked my arm compassion. My curiosity still gives me enough strength to take the fingertips of one picture which may have been granted for 60 years.
disused buildings are small pantheons of human presence, better than the great Parisian caught up in one's imagination and memories cascaded by inflicting a trip back. Hopefully one day life will resume its colors, removes rust components, and allows me to cross the old butler over coffee.
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