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Tchao Bella

the heat.
So hot that you can ride a bicycle in the night wearing only a canottierina summer. Indeed, it is the only time of day you breathe.
A couple of cocktails dancing in the stomach with the Senegalese dish of the restaurant just experienced. Music
the street, and in rooms. The
épiceries de nuit open and bright, with their watermelons in plain sight.
Elderly immigrants who gather to drink mint tea in the coffee shop.
Caroselli for the victory of Turkey to Europeans. The community is in celebration.
Young French dancing barefoot on the sidewalk, ignoring the fact that we are in a corner of the glass.
jasmine bushes. A sweet-looking dog.
I also dance. The skirt turns, makes the wheel, as a child.
The head spins. A bit '.
And suddenly the trumpets sing hello beautiful.
And let's leave the French pronunciation ("beautiful Tchao"), but it was nice.
E 'was a sensation. Taste.
That summer evening concerts party unit, or liberation. Festivals, events, the myriad of initiatives that bloom between July and August. Mesh reading, concerts in the fields and in the streets, choirs, jugglers, smell incense, colors, mixed fried fish and more time taken. Moisture when the night is going to melt in the morning, and croissants.
E 'was melancholy. Heartbreaking.
For you, for our eyes that cross through the crowd to its liquid eyes, for us to dance in the middle of the group but we could be alone, for our evening concerts in the most unlikely, the stalls and ethnic specialties, or not ...
For our laughter and also for our skirmishes. For his smell, his dancing and his band for the hair.
want to go home.