Coming back on Friday evening I shared space in the ligne 7 –> Ivy.Villejuif Métro car with guess who…… the French Mr. Bean!! Talk about excitement!
He even had those long pale hands with fingers fidgety and fiddly, looking for something to crawl onto (he was busy poking at his blackberry). He even nervously licked his lips in that quick, sloppy way, as if he were trying to slurp them back into his mouth. Even those big round eyes, deep set and buggy; and ears that stuck out.
For those few stops between Chatelet and Censier-Daubenton I stood there resting my head against the pole, admiring him in his Beanness. He was hunched in the upper body, legs apart with his feet pointing inwards. With this posture his shirt slackened to gather in creases above his tummy, giving it freedom to protrude in gentle roundedness. His suit jacket stretched across his shoulders and arms as he held his gadget straight out in front of him with curved arms.
I was seriously in heaven. How could this be possible? A real Bean? And the secret is that he’s French? He looked up once or twice to my massive smile and impolite stare, but seemed totally unconcerned or surprised.
What more is there to say? Wow. The French get it all, the stylish cosmopolitans and the Beans of this world. Where is the justice?