Both say immediately, I am a VIP.
Once I decided on a whim, to return again in Nice Promenade des Anglais, things went very quickly.
I put my car - which almost never leaves me-the plane, and events unfolded as usual. I'm sitting in first class and the hostesses are friendly with me. Sometimes a little nerve, because it keeps asking me if I need anything.
On arrival, even carousel: I got my usual preferential treatment. Agents with fluorescent vests, walkie-talkies and ear headphones escorted me through a hidden path to avoid the crowd. Not that I really fear screaming fans, but I hate most people, that's all.
I am VIP, I tell you.
I do nothing like everyone else: I took my car right out of the terminal, while other passengers were still queuing for get a taxi or rental car.
It was late afternoon, the sun was hitting hard again, but with the sea breeze, the heat was bearable. My car was spinning quietly at low speed along the dikes fortified stretch of rock on which the runways of the airport.
I headed to Magnan and California, the breeze in my hair. It is a kind of gig, my car. As usual, I passed right by all the woodlice locked in their beetle sheet, like ants stuck in traffic. I back the files without flashing the headlights or honks, smoothly. To California, I am squarely mounted on the wide asphalt pavement which is the Rose Walk on the twelve miles to the Baie des Anges. I slalomed between the planters, the palmetto, the jogger in fluorescent pink and ice itinerant merchants. I was full throttle and the people most often parted without a word on my way. Some just turned away his head, but that's all. They see that I'm from another planet, they dare not say anything. I am VIP, I can afford and that's it.
The sea was rolling its rollers not very clear, spray spat lacrimal of showers. The noise of the tide was like a sonata in sonotone old gentlemen walked deeply bronzed in shorts, elbows to the body, trying to live a year or two longer than what the statistics predict. They cried their drops as others mourn their anger. They were a bit silly automatons: they walked like marathoners in swaying like old belly dancers. When they reached the airport, they were turned around and went away in the other direction, the white foam of hair accolade by the sweat on their brown wrinkled torso and tanned by the sun.
For them, we felt although it would be so until death. Casino Ruhl go to California and back.
I watched them absently, but a bit intrigued nonetheless. They had a lightness and vitality that I had was a case heard. However, I could not to envy them.
After the Negresco and the former Palace of the Mediterranean, I approached the street Massenet, where I once lived. I crossed the Promenade and parked myself in front of the terrace of the Mississippi. " The others run twenty minutes before arriving to park and a drink. I do not. I park in front of the terrace that I chose, that's all. I am VIP.
I installed without waiting for me means a table, and I ordered a bottle of Bandol rosé. The boy asked me if I expected someone. I said no, now I picols alone is best. He shrugged and withdrew the remaining glass from the table prepared. In Nice, it's like in Paris, the waiters no longer surprised by anything.
I threw a glance round about me. Things had hardly changed in 25 years. The "Mississippi" always harbored some English or Japanese tourists and traditional women in the back, face smooth strained to bursting with Botox and coups scalpel, which contrasted with their hands and their scabbed neck pleated front as Delon when he takes her angrily.
There was also waiting gigolos, who drank bottled water because they were going to need all their resources to reach the end of their night. Also some old tango dancers dressed and pathetic, waiting for tea dancing.
I drank my Bandol conscientiously deciliter per deciliter. These things, I do not ever do it halfway. Then I launched a 50 euro note without waiting for change, as do the thugs, I handed the contact and went back on "the Prom".
arrived at Magnan, to the station "Elf," came back like a boomerang that night in February 1985, the year it was so cold and snowy where palm trees are frozen on the Promenade. I was a steward, I went home after the last night flight, the 0 hour 17 from Orly. I was spinning on the Promenade to find Nina and the third fire, the English Aston Martin got off the road, then the spine. The last words of a free man who crossed my cerebral cortex were "ah, the con". Afterwards, there was shock, noise, noise rather endless and varied.
This should be a colorblind English, came to paint the beauty of the Baie des Anges, which confused the colors. Or a gardener on a spree which confounded the blood orange traffic lights with ripe tomato. It seems that he too had blood in his alcohol.
From Bloody Mary.
In fact, the shock was bloody, but I have not met Mary. No doubt she gets on that appointment. However, I was received with open arms in the ICU and longer still in the rehabilitation pool.
And then I changed my car. I Sameva an electric motor 25 kw, 7-inch wheels, automatic transmission, full options.
I drive with one hand, with a "joy stick". You bet. Let me make mine.
I am VIP Very Impotent Person.
To see him there in the June sun, the crossroads seemed very mundane, almost harmless. Yet he had done away with all his Nina, the ones I had more. Fleeing my friends, my job, my legs, my neck, my legs to my neck and the rest. A vicious and devious, that one. I do not recommend it.
Still, I took the sidewalk promenade sea view, and I put the throttle. Yes, the head of the children I did not, I swear that I drove at full throttle, eyes closed and the wheels straight. I waited
striking of English. I dreamed that I sprayed whole skewers. Not in the old Aston Martin green tweed cap, no, their descendants, the ruddy tattooed in neon tank top, belly prominent, and lots of beer. I sprayed with my racing car, as surely a combine relentless swallows and spits out the corn grain far with its telescopic arm. I sent them into the stratosphere finely chopped pretty brown that I would, the necropolis of their rump arched toward the sky where my rod from sinking further. The juice of me that did not flash and never will create quilts blonde girls to play the Nintendo DS by listening to Amy Mc Donalds. Neither of boys with whom they play football in the cool evening after a barbecue on the lawn, dressed as Spiderman to catch the spider that has the ceiling.
I shipped them in the planet Saturn Nebula and breakfast on the grass, kicking carelessly thrown in metal cans, the distant planet of stairs down four to four.
And suddenly, the shock threw me forward. Something compact and hard, but I felt immediately that this was not an Englishman. I was disappointed. When I opened my eyes, a little blood dripping from my chin on my shirt, but I did not suffer. Anyway, long time ago that I feel nothing. The obstacle
was a kind of giant plastic bin, with the inscription: "Have safe sex and green. Please put your Used condoms litter Dedicated In The Box " (1).
A British tank tops. Decidedly, they are too strong, these English. I could never quite possess.
The Municipal Police had arrived by bike in the meantime and had begun to draw Minutes degradation of street furniture.
The one who held the pen could not hide his embarrassment at the check mark and the type of my vehicle on the box its counterfoil. But I had
more anger, Bandol was getting seriously its effect and he became my friend.
I closed my eyes again, and English, I decided once and for all send them a walk.
Sandro
(1) "Have safe sex, and ecological. Thank you to throw your used condoms in the trash placed for that purpose. "
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