Getting a falaffel before bed
Paris is better with friends.
Met up with one who lives here.
Went by the Seine. I've never seen this many rats before. Didn't even know they were communal animals. They're living in dug-out burroughs and abandoned buildings. The park in front of the Notre Dame is a veritable petting zoo - I half expected an old lady selling breadcrumbs on the steps.
We are walking along the narrow riverbanks.
I feel apprehension towards the cold dark water beside me. I repulse from it, bumping into my friend who is walking between me and the safety of the city, with my life in his hands.
Crossing Pont Neuf was another ordeal: Loose wooden beamns that shift with every step, revealing more of the icy torrent below. I peer through the cracks for any sign of malice. The uncaring chill below fails to reassure.
We do talk about the yellow vests. My friend is not going to the protests. "I have very little expectations that it will lead to anything. I do remember when it started. I was in Holland, studying, and it really influenced the way I saw the next year of my life unfolding. I remember thinking: if we are having a real revolution, what could I do to support that?"
The fallafel cooks are talking about a manifestation happening yesterday. Another group, not yellow vests, throwing eggs and flour somewhere. Interrupting an airport? I should check this out.
"When you go tomorrow," he said, as we walked onto Place de la Republique, "beware that, well, not to say that it's a right-wing movement, but it is kind of. The classical groups who mainly protested before, the marxist, they are not there. It's more Rural france, and people who dont like taxes who are going to this."
Too many nationalists.
But maybe it's only right wing because the left isn't showing up. That's what I'm trying to figure out.
Is yellow vests a revolutionary movement? Or a reactionary distraction?
"Like I said, I have very little expectations for the movement. I will be glad with every little bit better it gets."
I ask him where he lives.
"My girlfriend's parents own a studio. We pay the mortgage."
I see.
On our walk, we comment on the structural integrity and perceived cozyness of the shelters the homeless have fashioned for themselves, in all the places the rats haven't dug up. We part ways in front of the Hotel de Ville - the Parisian city hall.
Tomorrow is the big day, and I have no idea where to go.
It is time to leave this falaffel place. I'm glad I stoped. I'll give the change I get to the man I saw preparing to sleep in the shop window next door, if it's not too much. As I count the coins in my hand - and decide to keep just over half - i find him already asleep, and tuck the change under his pillow.
It's his backpack, and I have one just like it.