The one thing that makes life less unbearable here is the unending string of street circus acts one can witness every day.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the mimes, but there is so much more.
Here’s one, courtesy of the Mélenchon crowd, down at my small Mom & Pop supermarket yesterday:
A young(ish) man, covered in artful tattooes and dressed in strategically teared up Kaporal jeans, zips past me down the aisle towards another guy sporting the same elaborated unkempt, transient-chic appearance prevalent among the Wretched of the Western World—a most common species in France, where faked exterior signs of misery are soo romantic and will get you buckets of peer-approval.
Rejoining his buddy, and in a tone slightly too loud and forced to be spontaneous, he blurts:
Putain! C’est le supermarché de Macron ici! T’as pas un steak à moins de 10 euros!
(F*! That’s Macron’s supermarket here! There’s no steak under 10 euros!)
His prospectively steak-less companion smirks. They leave, making sure their body language matches precisely their loathing for this Ultra-liberal1 pit of a supermarket.
I am in half a mind of handing them a handful of small change for the performance, and then I remember they are not actual clowns, and this wasn’t a show—even if they did make a song and dance about it.
There is nevertheless something quite amusing about a couple of morons with—between them—hundreds of euros in denim pants and permanent skin graffiti, outraged you’d have to shell out a tenner for a steak.
Dude, when you really are short of money, you may dream about it but you don’t even look at red meat.