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Dominique

Dominique is an elder of those of old ones. Of those that you never despise a smile and they give you deserve kindness yet. Of those who rise from bed at dawn to begin sentences with good standing the day and, very early, opening the doors of what has always been his home, his little corner, and give it to all passersby every day decide to modify their way and make a little visit. Besides all that, Dominique is my neighbor. Or at least that I like to think of me. Dominique

owns one of the people here call bouquinistes, small stalls that crowded the banks of the Seine. The Dominique is, specifically, the Quai Voltaire up to the Pont Royal, halfway between the corner of Rue Rue du Bac and Beaune, and from there to greet us each morning, often without knowing it, and reminds us how lucky we are to have him as a neighbor.



But Dominique is not alone. Soon, very early, the Parisian cobblestones begin to fill with pedestrians and cyclists. But Paris is in no hurry. No noise of horns and noisy traffic jams. Neither suicide nor executives heated cab drivers. Only the incessant traffic of tourists, a majority English-blurs somewhat the environment. Paris, just enjoy yourself. Know how.

Boulevard de Saint Germain The sand is another matter. Large and famous trademarks monopolize almost all corners. Contemporary art galleries are becoming more frequent. And the Parisian bourgeoisie on the scene. And is that Sciences Po is very, very bourgeois, but wants to deny. In fact, they arrive at 27 rue Saint Guillaume student community welcomes celebrating and commemorating the participation of the Institute of Political Studies of Paris in the French May. Social and political advertising occupies most of the tables who kindly gave the University for students to freely express their social concerns. And a big sign inviting to students for the fifth general assembly of the association of gays, lesbians Sciences Po and transsexuals. Proclamations communists and socialists everywhere out of the mouths of students, which boast separate from those young people who are jacketed to go to class, "those conservative Catholics of the old aristocracy," they say. However, as is known, but the monkey dressed in silk ...

The Boulevard Saint-Germain wash your face a little late in the afternoon. There are only leaves of a beige-brown trees drop escort Avenue. Only are the terraces of chic cafes and boulangeries announcing its closure. Then, and only then, when the city slumbers. Numbing slowly, slowly but surely, only allowing time for cyclists managed to return home and passers dissipate slowly building the last few minutes of light.

Upon returning home, Dominique is lying on his bench, always attentive to his little corner of old Paris, although aware that it's getting late. That tomorrow is another day.