Down the street from us is the Rue de France. This mostly pedestrianized street runs parallel to the ocean. It is one of the beating hearts of this city's tourism, filled with cafes and shops and people.
Oh the people, a great river of people!
But it's nice to sit in a cafe there and have drink and watch all the humans of all the world go by. Many of our favorite places are there.
Once, a couple months ago, more towards the Winter side of things, we were walking down by the Rue de France and saw smoke rising into the sky down the street, and beyond the line of our sight. Distant sirens started rising. And then we heard an explosion.
What was that?
Does one walk towards explosions, or away from them?
What if there is no screaming?
There was no screaming. The streets perked with interest, but remained mostly calm, just filling with the thick smell of burning toxins and the rise of sirens. It had been a long day. We walked the other way, towards home.
And though we mentioned it for awhile, and I thought of how little resources I had to figure out what had happened, it was soon enough covered over by life and time. Surely we were down on the Rue de France in a day or two again, and there are close to zero days we live here where we aren't at least briefly on or along that street. But nothing ever showed of the mysterious calamity, and there was nothing to bring it to our attention again.
And then yesterday we were coming home along that street. We saw a shop that my darling wife wanted to look at. As it was small inside I decided to stay outside. Maybe I would find a few things to take pictures of. When you look around in this city there are always a few good things to take pictures of.
So I looked around...
and took these:
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