It was one of those particularly spectacular days that visit our burdensome planet on very rare occasions that can even illuminate some equatorial, perpetually basking in sunrays, paradise. Everything was just perfect with sun gently caressing every creature with softest of touches, the air was nearly still and fresh, with no extra humidity to elicit a single drop of unnecessary sweat. The views were as lucid as if deliberately painted on the canvass of life with the most vivid of colours, instilling a light-headed feeling of eternal joy and incessant optimism. The surrounding slopes gently nudged into the bottomless ether of heavens and cascading greenery pleaded for harmony with soft and fertile soil, the very one that nurtured every leaf, stem and grape.
“That will do”, old Francois was particularly pleased with his work today. It could not have been otherwise, perfection just reverberated through every corner of his old soul as he was proudly feasting his dimming eyes on the vineyard stretching endlessly along comb-like patterns, limitless as the horizon itself.
Francois, now stooping into his sixties, has been at it for decades inheriting the joys of ancient winemaking from his father who was just as lucky to produce the best grapes courtesy of prideful tradition spanning generations. Sure, not all was perfect and there were challenges, as bad weather and pure misfortune were their occasional guests. But this year was going to be the best one yet with wine lovers having a chance to savour their favourite and carefully drawn sips for many years to come. The vine was full, translucent and heavy – a sure sign of quality not seen in years.
Francois could not wait to start working on his full grapes, turning them into the potion of joie-de-vivre; bringing happiness to all things that life had to offer – goat cheese, wild honey and foie gras. Slowly but surely his hard and pressing efforts would denude the vine of its burden, bringing the loot into vats and start bringing new life into the bumper crop. The rest of the process could only be qualified by one word – patience.
It would be years of sloshing around large barrels, pungent and spacious. The juices would ferment slowly enjoying their perennial spa treatment. Later their real qualities would have to be tamed, bottled and studied with every sense of smell still left to old Francois and his wife, Monica. Slowly but surely, the liquid treasure would be transformed into something with unforgettable body and substance only appreciated by real gourmands clasped in the bondage of Roquefort and Beluga caviar. Or perhaps a nice truffle might cross the wine’s path to a culinary orgasm, an inevitable and the most gratifying aspect of the entire cycle of tasteful consumption. The process that views money and profitability as mere gravy, and the chance to satisfy someone with a sense of true appreciation is an ultimate conquest worthy of countless days of loving labour and passion.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
The narrow and twisted streets laden with ancient cobblestones have seen much in their service to mostly careless humanity. They have seen wars, senseless brutality and unexpected invasions. They have seen life, slow and desperate, interrupted by intractable snow, plague and poor harvests - these stones have laid a silent witness to backwardness and neglect of these remote parts. Hardly anything here has ever been present in plenty, anything but snow – a part of life never to forget, with every winter season not far from the doorstep.
Accompanying general and speedy improvements in general human condition witnessed in the last few decades, the stones have come back to life, witnessing a profound change in their remarkable surroundings. Being tucked onto the valley floor at the bottom of the majestic Alps, the stones got very busy in the most unexpected season of all – the winter. Now, with unyielding plastic boots scuffling and polishing the living daylights out of every inch of the ancient witness, the barbarians of the new age have descended onto the valley floor to indulge in their unquenched quest for speed and excitement – skiing.
Well, being the warriors that they are, the cobblestones had to adapt to yet another set of new circumstances that begot, instead of the bitter fruit of patricidal wars or sanguinary revolutions, something much more palatable – the middle class. With wars behind them and the UN with them, the folks in the old beat-up Europe finally managed to conjure up a mechanism of survival that skirted on guillotines and water torture. Instead they have decided to cut up the pie more evenly. So much so that even the brood that used to call Versailles home, now have to drive in very squishy automobiles and share their jet-setting ways with the ever-present economy class. Sure, it could have been inconvenient for some but multitudes discovered a notion of leisure and a 35-hour work week. Now remember, the week still had all those 168 hours in it, so the middle classes busily pursued the ways to kill all that extra time and the elites were just happy to feed it to them. How about some cold brilliant winter slopes anyone?
The cobblestones’ life has changed for the busy better. Forget about rickety horse-drawn carriages and myriads on feet in rough uncomfortable shoes, now we have new spacey plastics to scuffle the cobblestones to a new nearly mirror like shine. Understandably it might be a little heavier on the old geezers but who could complain with so much to take in. New fashions, giggling children and overall plenty made the old forgotten road an artery of happiness for so many. On occasion it even got juicier with some foreign royalty and domestic film stars paying their respects to the masses and their own quest for Alpine rejuvenation. These changes, miraculous and mundane, brought new prosperity to the local folk. The old boulangerie got to fete the lovers of pasties and the local butcher was running out of counter space for more carnally inclined patrons. No longer, they survived pushing cheap fare to fill poor men’s stomachs. Now they prospered, offering the most delicate of morsels for any size of wallet. The notion of a gourmand stopped referring to some sophistication that never left the banks of the Seine. Now, the culture of “bonne vie” spread beyond the pail of the powerful with many wanting to close their eyes and delight in a piece of something heavenly and superb. Who wouldn’t?
None has managed better in these times of plenty than old Gerard, the perennial purveyor of “bon vin” to the tastes of all good and sensible citizenry in their quest to cap off a brilliant day on the slick slopes. Girard loved a good joke and his patrons were hardly ever disappointed. Girard ha been happy to peddle the greatest legal drug mixed with inebriating mountain air, bestowing upon many the sheer happiness of skipping the daily drudgery of work in the city. Girard has relished the challenge of meeting the requirements even of the toughest of palates. Champagne, Burgundy and Bordeaux, of all colours, hew and tastes have brought delight to his wide reddish face always in a slight need of a diet.
>>>>>>>>>>>
“It was one of those mesmerising days when the fresh mountain air just sang like a tight guitar string in the midst of flamenco dramatics”, Roger, the local schoolmaster was pre-eminent in his penchant for story telling.
“Everything was just ready, poised for a lazy winter day with not much to do but to sit by the fire with a good book and watch the pages fly by. Suddenly, I heard it. It sort of started like an avalanche, an event known but unusual in these days of groomed skiing. I perked my ears just to discover that this one had to be something else unless the avalanche was about to demolish the whole town, something that has not happened here since the times of Charlemagne, I tell you. Anyway, the noise grew louder and louder, the windows shook and furniture creaked uncontrollably. Must be the earthquake, something that has not happened since Henry the Fourth. I had to look outside. The surprisingly simple answer came in a form of three black Hummers with tinted windows and loud music, barrelling through the narrow and twisted town cobblestone at nearly eight K, affroyant! The license plates betrayed the latest phenomenon that is no older than Chirac’s presidency – the Russian invasion”.
Roger reclined deeper into his comfortable arrangement by an old wood burning fireplace, sipping on his hot tea and laying aside his perpetually smoking pipe in a wide slow hand swipe of contemplation. The pipe was a present from his father some twenty ago and tea jigged his literary juices.
“You see, we never used to see Russians or any other folk from behind the Carpathian Mountains. They lived in their own faraway world that was as mysterious as the China of Marco Polo. This all changed in the late eighties when that president of theirs, oh what’s his name?”
“Gorbachev”
“Oh yes that m’sieur. Then some started coming, miserable looking creatures they were in their well-worn nutria hats, unfashionable coats and non-descript shoes. All smelled of perpetual uncouthness of their hopeless shops and a complete lack of taste whether in cheese, wine or manners. All was desperate and done in one shot just as their vile vodka drinking rituals. It was like they feared that their very next bite would be snatched by some relentless red commissar.”
“So what happened next?”
“Then the whole deal with that country of theirs went down. All fell apart and we thought it was the last of them we ever saw. And yet, in the very first winter after the events they started coming, first a trickle then a stream, now it is a deluge. I heard something like a third of all skiers here are from Russia. Now interesting thing, ever since the first trickle these folks have been dramatically different from the old scared apparatchiks. Suddenly, these people had money, lots of it. They came in the best fashions and behaved as money was going out of style. It almost felt like they were trying to outspend the next guy in the most wasteful fashion possible”
“How did the locals react? Was there a change for you?”
“Most of us liked it. The real estate just shot up and everyone felt rich. Our business folk loved it as anything remotely unique could be sold for a killing to these people. No taste really, just raw consumption. I can hardly believe that Pushkin was their poet. Hardly any taste and that disdain for anything of measure is just awful. For us, French, a chance to eat and drink well, presents an opportunity to contemplate. Just close your eyes and imagine you are in some place magic. These guys eat Roquefort by pounds! Worse yet they chase it with that awful vodka using the best of Champagne as a chaser! I tell you, animals could have done better…”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“C’est la vie!” Girard just waved his hands in utter desperation as if completely defeated.
He was just about to close for lunch when that awful noise penetrated and rattled the tranquil surroundings of his prised business – the local wine cellar, one of the most famous in the whole of the Trois Valles region.
How could it be otherwise when his family has run the place for eight generations and counting? Everything inside was set according to the most meticulous of patterns even keeping with the primordial dust covering his valued possessions with some unique one that required a true occasion for a true connoisseur. Wine bottles covered just about every square inch of the place, hiding under the picturesque and indestructible red stone arches that added to an appearance of a magic kingdom. The kingdom that despite a decent amount of artificial light seemed to enchant in a nearly complete defiance to the fickle nature of the outside. The delicate wines loved stability and Girard needed only two small windows in the front to commune with the world yonder, sitting behind his ample counter that served as a “place de degustation” and a check-out all at the same time.
“I shuddered when I heard that the incessant noise ceasing right on my doorstep, on the parking lot just next to the building. I thought that aliens had landed…”
It was not to be as the door was unceremoniously pushed with hinges barely clinging for dear life as the ancient stone wall barely kept doorjamb form making a complete 360. Three leather-bound man in Gucci sunglasses and comfortable snowboarding boots burst unwelcome into the solemn grotto world. At first dazzled by the crepuscule colours of the establishment, they took their glasses squinting, revealing characteristically wide faces with crowns of sparkling gold shining through their penurious smiles of the prideful conquerors.
“What’s your most expensive bottle of wine?” their question was as subtle as a sledgehammer in a radio repair shop.” Girard chuckles, ruefully at that.
“Oh, those damned Russians, I thought. Always with their broken English as if French did not even exist. Can you imagine the nerve? No bonjour, no politesse, nothing. Just straight up, mixed with a few words of their own, the ones I did not bother to find out.”
Spell-bound for a fleeting moment, Girard regained his composure and continued. After all this was not the first time to serve new skiing clientele. Besides, they usually asked for good wine with decent profit margins.
“Yes, I used to like seeing these people as my pockets loved their money. But seeing how they treated my wines made me cringe more than once. With time I did not delight in the opportunity any longer. That time it was no different. What was I supposed to tell them? My daughter was about to get married and a couple of extra grand would not hurt. That old Francois wine aged like gold and I was going to turn it into some real coin. Aah, what the heck I thought, at five grand a bottle I could hardly afford drinking it myself. Old Francois would have understood had he been around. He knew his stuff was superb but his 1968 crop was especially prized, he himself only drank it in sips with his favourite autumn fois gras.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Five thousand Euros a bottle”
“How many do you have?”
“Three…”
“Vitya, they have only three, kozli” one broad faced man with ruddy cheeks said to another.
“We’ll take all three” said Vitya.
Girard was just spellbound, recovering from the shock of the riches of the proposed sale.
“Vitya golubchik, hurry up I am getting hungry” sang a young female voice from the outside.
“OK, I’ll be back in a moment” our old friend trudged to the sacred corner in the back of the store. Minutes later he still stood there awestruck, looking at the pile of paper covering a goodly portion of the counter. The Russians had left.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Girard stood there for a moment unable to speak.
Roger, the old school master, could not resist coming and checking on his friend, “May I come in”
It was complete silence save for some shrieks of celebration on the outside. The Hummers did not move. They felt a tinge of curiosity. Five minutes later they could not contain themselves.
“Let’s go check it out”, Roger suggested.
“You go, I am a little shocked, besides all this money’
“OK I’ll back in a jiff.”
Seconds later Roger came back with an ashen face, “I could not tell you, you have to see it yourself”
Stashing the cash in the deepest recesses of the counter, Girard open the door slightly ajar just to see what was that jolly noise on the parking lot. Squinting as if punched by the bright sunshine, his eyes watered. Were these the tears? Seconds later, nobody was going to be mistaken on the account. Tears, as big as grapes, were rolling down Girard’s cheeks – tears of humour, terror and anything in between. “C’est incroyable!”
Three Hummers faced each other in one jovial barbeque party. There was Vitya and his furry Gucci clad friends toasting one another with filled to the brim glasses of chilled vodka. A glass of Vodka in his right, Victor’s left hand he was pouring something dark out of a dusty glass bottle on the smoking portable barbeque steaming under a rough burden of heavy beefsteaks.
Victor turned around and smiled, as the last drops of the old Francois wine were soaking the impenetrable ancient cobblestones on their latest trip to perpetual discovery and rebirth…
“That will do”, old Francois was particularly pleased with his work today. It could not have been otherwise, perfection just reverberated through every corner of his old soul as he was proudly feasting his dimming eyes on the vineyard stretching endlessly along comb-like patterns, limitless as the horizon itself.
Francois, now stooping into his sixties, has been at it for decades inheriting the joys of ancient winemaking from his father who was just as lucky to produce the best grapes courtesy of prideful tradition spanning generations. Sure, not all was perfect and there were challenges, as bad weather and pure misfortune were their occasional guests. But this year was going to be the best one yet with wine lovers having a chance to savour their favourite and carefully drawn sips for many years to come. The vine was full, translucent and heavy – a sure sign of quality not seen in years.
Francois could not wait to start working on his full grapes, turning them into the potion of joie-de-vivre; bringing happiness to all things that life had to offer – goat cheese, wild honey and foie gras. Slowly but surely his hard and pressing efforts would denude the vine of its burden, bringing the loot into vats and start bringing new life into the bumper crop. The rest of the process could only be qualified by one word – patience.
It would be years of sloshing around large barrels, pungent and spacious. The juices would ferment slowly enjoying their perennial spa treatment. Later their real qualities would have to be tamed, bottled and studied with every sense of smell still left to old Francois and his wife, Monica. Slowly but surely, the liquid treasure would be transformed into something with unforgettable body and substance only appreciated by real gourmands clasped in the bondage of Roquefort and Beluga caviar. Or perhaps a nice truffle might cross the wine’s path to a culinary orgasm, an inevitable and the most gratifying aspect of the entire cycle of tasteful consumption. The process that views money and profitability as mere gravy, and the chance to satisfy someone with a sense of true appreciation is an ultimate conquest worthy of countless days of loving labour and passion.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
The narrow and twisted streets laden with ancient cobblestones have seen much in their service to mostly careless humanity. They have seen wars, senseless brutality and unexpected invasions. They have seen life, slow and desperate, interrupted by intractable snow, plague and poor harvests - these stones have laid a silent witness to backwardness and neglect of these remote parts. Hardly anything here has ever been present in plenty, anything but snow – a part of life never to forget, with every winter season not far from the doorstep.
Accompanying general and speedy improvements in general human condition witnessed in the last few decades, the stones have come back to life, witnessing a profound change in their remarkable surroundings. Being tucked onto the valley floor at the bottom of the majestic Alps, the stones got very busy in the most unexpected season of all – the winter. Now, with unyielding plastic boots scuffling and polishing the living daylights out of every inch of the ancient witness, the barbarians of the new age have descended onto the valley floor to indulge in their unquenched quest for speed and excitement – skiing.
Well, being the warriors that they are, the cobblestones had to adapt to yet another set of new circumstances that begot, instead of the bitter fruit of patricidal wars or sanguinary revolutions, something much more palatable – the middle class. With wars behind them and the UN with them, the folks in the old beat-up Europe finally managed to conjure up a mechanism of survival that skirted on guillotines and water torture. Instead they have decided to cut up the pie more evenly. So much so that even the brood that used to call Versailles home, now have to drive in very squishy automobiles and share their jet-setting ways with the ever-present economy class. Sure, it could have been inconvenient for some but multitudes discovered a notion of leisure and a 35-hour work week. Now remember, the week still had all those 168 hours in it, so the middle classes busily pursued the ways to kill all that extra time and the elites were just happy to feed it to them. How about some cold brilliant winter slopes anyone?
The cobblestones’ life has changed for the busy better. Forget about rickety horse-drawn carriages and myriads on feet in rough uncomfortable shoes, now we have new spacey plastics to scuffle the cobblestones to a new nearly mirror like shine. Understandably it might be a little heavier on the old geezers but who could complain with so much to take in. New fashions, giggling children and overall plenty made the old forgotten road an artery of happiness for so many. On occasion it even got juicier with some foreign royalty and domestic film stars paying their respects to the masses and their own quest for Alpine rejuvenation. These changes, miraculous and mundane, brought new prosperity to the local folk. The old boulangerie got to fete the lovers of pasties and the local butcher was running out of counter space for more carnally inclined patrons. No longer, they survived pushing cheap fare to fill poor men’s stomachs. Now they prospered, offering the most delicate of morsels for any size of wallet. The notion of a gourmand stopped referring to some sophistication that never left the banks of the Seine. Now, the culture of “bonne vie” spread beyond the pail of the powerful with many wanting to close their eyes and delight in a piece of something heavenly and superb. Who wouldn’t?
None has managed better in these times of plenty than old Gerard, the perennial purveyor of “bon vin” to the tastes of all good and sensible citizenry in their quest to cap off a brilliant day on the slick slopes. Girard loved a good joke and his patrons were hardly ever disappointed. Girard ha been happy to peddle the greatest legal drug mixed with inebriating mountain air, bestowing upon many the sheer happiness of skipping the daily drudgery of work in the city. Girard has relished the challenge of meeting the requirements even of the toughest of palates. Champagne, Burgundy and Bordeaux, of all colours, hew and tastes have brought delight to his wide reddish face always in a slight need of a diet.
>>>>>>>>>>>
“It was one of those mesmerising days when the fresh mountain air just sang like a tight guitar string in the midst of flamenco dramatics”, Roger, the local schoolmaster was pre-eminent in his penchant for story telling.
“Everything was just ready, poised for a lazy winter day with not much to do but to sit by the fire with a good book and watch the pages fly by. Suddenly, I heard it. It sort of started like an avalanche, an event known but unusual in these days of groomed skiing. I perked my ears just to discover that this one had to be something else unless the avalanche was about to demolish the whole town, something that has not happened here since the times of Charlemagne, I tell you. Anyway, the noise grew louder and louder, the windows shook and furniture creaked uncontrollably. Must be the earthquake, something that has not happened since Henry the Fourth. I had to look outside. The surprisingly simple answer came in a form of three black Hummers with tinted windows and loud music, barrelling through the narrow and twisted town cobblestone at nearly eight K, affroyant! The license plates betrayed the latest phenomenon that is no older than Chirac’s presidency – the Russian invasion”.
Roger reclined deeper into his comfortable arrangement by an old wood burning fireplace, sipping on his hot tea and laying aside his perpetually smoking pipe in a wide slow hand swipe of contemplation. The pipe was a present from his father some twenty ago and tea jigged his literary juices.
“You see, we never used to see Russians or any other folk from behind the Carpathian Mountains. They lived in their own faraway world that was as mysterious as the China of Marco Polo. This all changed in the late eighties when that president of theirs, oh what’s his name?”
“Gorbachev”
“Oh yes that m’sieur. Then some started coming, miserable looking creatures they were in their well-worn nutria hats, unfashionable coats and non-descript shoes. All smelled of perpetual uncouthness of their hopeless shops and a complete lack of taste whether in cheese, wine or manners. All was desperate and done in one shot just as their vile vodka drinking rituals. It was like they feared that their very next bite would be snatched by some relentless red commissar.”
“So what happened next?”
“Then the whole deal with that country of theirs went down. All fell apart and we thought it was the last of them we ever saw. And yet, in the very first winter after the events they started coming, first a trickle then a stream, now it is a deluge. I heard something like a third of all skiers here are from Russia. Now interesting thing, ever since the first trickle these folks have been dramatically different from the old scared apparatchiks. Suddenly, these people had money, lots of it. They came in the best fashions and behaved as money was going out of style. It almost felt like they were trying to outspend the next guy in the most wasteful fashion possible”
“How did the locals react? Was there a change for you?”
“Most of us liked it. The real estate just shot up and everyone felt rich. Our business folk loved it as anything remotely unique could be sold for a killing to these people. No taste really, just raw consumption. I can hardly believe that Pushkin was their poet. Hardly any taste and that disdain for anything of measure is just awful. For us, French, a chance to eat and drink well, presents an opportunity to contemplate. Just close your eyes and imagine you are in some place magic. These guys eat Roquefort by pounds! Worse yet they chase it with that awful vodka using the best of Champagne as a chaser! I tell you, animals could have done better…”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“C’est la vie!” Girard just waved his hands in utter desperation as if completely defeated.
He was just about to close for lunch when that awful noise penetrated and rattled the tranquil surroundings of his prised business – the local wine cellar, one of the most famous in the whole of the Trois Valles region.
How could it be otherwise when his family has run the place for eight generations and counting? Everything inside was set according to the most meticulous of patterns even keeping with the primordial dust covering his valued possessions with some unique one that required a true occasion for a true connoisseur. Wine bottles covered just about every square inch of the place, hiding under the picturesque and indestructible red stone arches that added to an appearance of a magic kingdom. The kingdom that despite a decent amount of artificial light seemed to enchant in a nearly complete defiance to the fickle nature of the outside. The delicate wines loved stability and Girard needed only two small windows in the front to commune with the world yonder, sitting behind his ample counter that served as a “place de degustation” and a check-out all at the same time.
“I shuddered when I heard that the incessant noise ceasing right on my doorstep, on the parking lot just next to the building. I thought that aliens had landed…”
It was not to be as the door was unceremoniously pushed with hinges barely clinging for dear life as the ancient stone wall barely kept doorjamb form making a complete 360. Three leather-bound man in Gucci sunglasses and comfortable snowboarding boots burst unwelcome into the solemn grotto world. At first dazzled by the crepuscule colours of the establishment, they took their glasses squinting, revealing characteristically wide faces with crowns of sparkling gold shining through their penurious smiles of the prideful conquerors.
“What’s your most expensive bottle of wine?” their question was as subtle as a sledgehammer in a radio repair shop.” Girard chuckles, ruefully at that.
“Oh, those damned Russians, I thought. Always with their broken English as if French did not even exist. Can you imagine the nerve? No bonjour, no politesse, nothing. Just straight up, mixed with a few words of their own, the ones I did not bother to find out.”
Spell-bound for a fleeting moment, Girard regained his composure and continued. After all this was not the first time to serve new skiing clientele. Besides, they usually asked for good wine with decent profit margins.
“Yes, I used to like seeing these people as my pockets loved their money. But seeing how they treated my wines made me cringe more than once. With time I did not delight in the opportunity any longer. That time it was no different. What was I supposed to tell them? My daughter was about to get married and a couple of extra grand would not hurt. That old Francois wine aged like gold and I was going to turn it into some real coin. Aah, what the heck I thought, at five grand a bottle I could hardly afford drinking it myself. Old Francois would have understood had he been around. He knew his stuff was superb but his 1968 crop was especially prized, he himself only drank it in sips with his favourite autumn fois gras.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Five thousand Euros a bottle”
“How many do you have?”
“Three…”
“Vitya, they have only three, kozli” one broad faced man with ruddy cheeks said to another.
“We’ll take all three” said Vitya.
Girard was just spellbound, recovering from the shock of the riches of the proposed sale.
“Vitya golubchik, hurry up I am getting hungry” sang a young female voice from the outside.
“OK, I’ll be back in a moment” our old friend trudged to the sacred corner in the back of the store. Minutes later he still stood there awestruck, looking at the pile of paper covering a goodly portion of the counter. The Russians had left.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Girard stood there for a moment unable to speak.
Roger, the old school master, could not resist coming and checking on his friend, “May I come in”
It was complete silence save for some shrieks of celebration on the outside. The Hummers did not move. They felt a tinge of curiosity. Five minutes later they could not contain themselves.
“Let’s go check it out”, Roger suggested.
“You go, I am a little shocked, besides all this money’
“OK I’ll back in a jiff.”
Seconds later Roger came back with an ashen face, “I could not tell you, you have to see it yourself”
Stashing the cash in the deepest recesses of the counter, Girard open the door slightly ajar just to see what was that jolly noise on the parking lot. Squinting as if punched by the bright sunshine, his eyes watered. Were these the tears? Seconds later, nobody was going to be mistaken on the account. Tears, as big as grapes, were rolling down Girard’s cheeks – tears of humour, terror and anything in between. “C’est incroyable!”
Three Hummers faced each other in one jovial barbeque party. There was Vitya and his furry Gucci clad friends toasting one another with filled to the brim glasses of chilled vodka. A glass of Vodka in his right, Victor’s left hand he was pouring something dark out of a dusty glass bottle on the smoking portable barbeque steaming under a rough burden of heavy beefsteaks.
Victor turned around and smiled, as the last drops of the old Francois wine were soaking the impenetrable ancient cobblestones on their latest trip to perpetual discovery and rebirth…
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