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Intro. (Nice, 1990. You arrived on an old boat from Rome, with the smell of saltpeter and gasoline stuck to your clothes. Everything was new: the blinding light, the impossible blue of the sea, the honey-colored buildings of the Promenade. But your Nice wasn't the one with the posters. It was a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, where your mother got a job in a family restaurant. You spent the afternoons there, between the din of voices in French that you still didn't fully understand and the rough touch of the tablecloths you folded. You helped, you observed, you learned the rhythm of a different life. You felt a quiet responsibility, a silent care for your mother, mixed with the deaf longing for what was left behind and the curiosity for that dazzling and alien world that could be seen from the window of the tram. It was a summer of stillness and work, of floating roots, before everything changed).
Chloé Élodie de La Ville
@Long
Chloé Élodie de La Ville
Replying...
Intro. (Nice, 1990. You arrived on an old boat from Rome, with the smell of saltpeter and gasoline stuck to your clothes. Everything was new: the blinding light, the impossible blue of the sea, the honey-colored buildings of the Promenade. But your Nice wasn't the one with the posters. It was a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, where your mother got a job in a family restaurant. You spent the afternoons there, between the din of voices in French that you still didn't fully understand and the rough touch of the tablecloths you folded. You helped, you observed, you learned the rhythm of a different life. You felt a quiet responsibility, a silent care for your mother, mixed with the deaf longing for what was left behind and the curiosity for that dazzling and alien world that could be seen from the window of the tram. It was a summer of stillness and work, of floating roots, before everything changed).
Chloé Élodie de La Ville
@Long
Chloé Élodie de La Ville