On ‘s ARRETE pass, “shouts an angry soldier. Big man, machine gun. He has certainly not against me. Even angrier: ‘On’ s ARRETE only. Fuck so well against me. “Keep going, gone through.”
The coffee at Chez Gaston lukewarm. No crema, dark black. A friend of mine wants to have coffee, but ordered hot chocolate, because he so eager to pronounce in French. Both a croissant, dry and crusty. We laugh at the waitress who immediately throws the bill on the table. ‘Continuous service, 7/7, “we read on her apron. Well, yes, poor service, including service, right? There someone shouts. Who? The cafe stopped by. Journalists keep their writing fingers still, the French breakfast men put the newspaper away. Who cries out?
No need to worry, no one yells. Again, no one yells. But it is clear as we look at each other. It was only whine on drums Peter lush jazz. We mutter further and look at Bataclan. A theater. Yesterday 100 people were murdered there.
Today, we can back out. We walk among tramps with cans of beer, men in running shorts and beside us a fat woman on a police motorcycle. She gives us priority, its siren turned off. It is quiet on the streets, and early. Half past seven in the morning? Eight o’clock. The city wakes up after a night of panic. Seven attacks with Kalashnikovs, bomgordels, dead. We had to stay indoors, on the orders of the president. Nobody could sleep. Two friends on an air mattress, one on the couch, alone in his own bed. The same ceiling, visible from four different angles. One begins to snore. Startled awake. Now we are back to four.
A nice weekend to Paris. Shall we go to the football match France – Germany? Nice is not it? Two favorites for the European Championship, and now we do not go, maybe we can cheer for the French. Or the Germans. ‘Worthless idea, “argue two friends. “We can not for the arrogant French, or the US-uitlachende Germans.” Okay, we’ll go into town. Drinking beer, wine, restaurant in, pub, club.
Paris, Friday, busy. Amsterdam is an amusement park, but just not in the French capital. All seats in the heated terraces are busy, we go on and on, as if we want to park our car necessarily at that spot on the canal. One round further. Four chairs, bingo. Only annoying are these two agents in wide uniform with beret and machine guns over their shoulders. Right in front of our noses. Whether they want to one side. Just kidding. We laugh boyish, so we get away with it firmly. It works, she grins and steps two meters aside. Beer on the most secure place in Paris.
We discuss the situation. How dangerous is Paris? We saw more men with beret and machine gun. When they shoot anyway? And how long will they be here? We just sit safely, or maybe just risky? Enters a table free. We move.
We know a good restaurant. Steak, fries, red wine. Espresso. Home, showering and the pub than a club.
No bar, no club: we stay at home. A text message, two text messages. A phone call: if everything goes well? Yeah, right. Want? For it is shot in the city. In several places. Stay inside. Are you home? Yes, we’re home. Yes, we stay at home. Lots of sirens. Absurd much. Television to call home. “Are you home?” Yes, yes, we stay at home.
A jumble of information. Twenty dead, forty dead, ninety deaths. French television broadcasts are not live, because who knows watching the terrorists with. Dutch television, Twitter, live blogs, and four boys who as a sole central all questions from concerned friends answer from the Netherlands. We also do not know much more, we see what everyone sees. We hear it just a little harder.
Explosions at the football stadium, a state of emergency. Kalashnikovs in restaurants, all borders closed. Sorry? Close the borders? Images of people running in the street, a shooting elite team of police, army, more sirens, the streets empty. Even the street where we just drank our beer before right there occurred another attack. When our friends with beret.
Yes, we stay at home.
One hundred deaths. One hundred twenty, one hundred and forty, even one hundred eighty, we hear. Oh, no, less, now … 129 (?). Good news.
It’s late. Nobody falls asleep. What faint kutfilm we can look to think as anywhere?
“What happens in Vegas’. What a kutfilm.
Eight o’clock in the morning. We walk outside into a city that slowly picks up with bells and whistles. The air raid was just wondering? No, we pass a barber shop where the barber is vacuuming. Something to alert, maybe. Alert at all. We look at anyone in the street, the people who come out of the subway, exchangeable for all the victims last night. The fat woman on the police motorcycle throws the siren again, we were right on time priority.
Bataclan are all members of the media circus ready. Film crews from around the world leaning against a fence, pointing in all languages a hundred meters further to the black canopy with yellow letters: Bataclan . Vans of the police block the entrance. One siren place after another. The theater moves only one traffic light from red to green, very briefly orange.
We chat, Chez Gaston walk in and order a black coffee and a chocolat chaud. Two croissants, delicious. Outside the world is evolving further within someone whines again over the music, equally alert; we now know that it is the trumpeter again.
We pay the bill thrown down. give a generous tip at the girl ‘continuous service, 7/7 “and stand still again at Bataclan. Yesterday 100 people murdered here.
‘On’ s ARRETE pass, “shouts the angry soldier again.
‘On’ s ARRETE only.
See also: Live from Paris: “This is unreal. I was in the street where the attack took place later! “
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