On the Metro on my way home from work, I sit across from two young men. They're moving a small café type table with cast iron legs and there is enough room on the train for them to have it in from of them, and they're leaning elbows on it and talking earnestly as if in a café. One is white, the other black, and both are so handsome, but in a such a natural and unsophisticated way, that I feel like whipping my camera out and taking their picture.
We get off at the same station, and at the Place people are handing out Ségolène Royal flyers and boisterously exhorting passers by to remember to vote on Sunday. The 18th is traditionally à gauche, so they're probably preaching to the choir, but one particularly exhuberant young woman is calling out,
-Who's the most beautiful ?! Ségolène !!
The guys are behind me now and one of them says,
- She's not that beautiful - well, compared to her competition, like Voynet, perhaps, but not really.
His friend chuckles, and I can't resist commenting,
- Even if she were the most beautiful, it's hardly a reason to vote for her, is it.
- No, but there are other good reasons to vote for her.
- I agree - but looks have nothing to do with it.
We share a smile, and it's such a nice moment. It's a crowded, bustly, noisy intersection, but at times like these it feels like a village.