Traffic jam, in a remote corner of the city, right near the American Embassy, on the route de Tabarrre. Barely two minutes earlier I was cool, windows down, hair blowing in the wind, tearing along a deserted road. And now, everything stops.

There are only the red lights of worn brakes; only voices, shouting. Only shadows running toward something. I don’t know what’s going on, as usual. I find that I’m sometimes slow to understand life in this beautiful country. Then, the shadow of a doubt passes before my eyes. A young man, running, four boxes on his head. In this country of rumours, of werewolves and witch doctors, I don’t usually pay too much attention to idle gossip, but ...

But then, everything.

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