Setting: Older street in Paris. Not cobblestone, but older. Brick office building, renovated in the late 80's style of removing all the inner trappings of the building, yet leaving the brick facade, filling the window frames with wide expanses of glass, modern glass frames, modern memphis style furniture inside, the vibrant colours clashing harmoniously with the white walls, the ancient outside building. A quiet street, courtyards to residential buildings, none more than 5 to 6 stories high. A Renault delivery van parked in the entrance of one, the engine clattering in idle. Modern in its growth, its renovation, yet strangely quiet, older, and calm. A place where walking through gives one the clarity of mind to not just walk through and by the buildings, but open their eyes to the granularity of the bricks, the feel of the sidewalk cracks beneath their feet. The skies can be grey, sunny, of filled with the quiet blanket of snow falling, yet the feeling of serenity, solemn and joyous reflection on ones life, where one has become in the life, and where one is going in their life is always present.

Char: Young man, working in France, working for a small firm, living in Paris as a bridge to the future of his adult life. Caught in the dreams of having lunch on the Seine, a glass of wine in one hand, and a woman wearing a beret in the other hand, he starts to realize his young dreams have given way to a sudden realization of what he really has in mind for his life, what dreams he will continue to have, how something simple that is aced upon can change his life forever. He lives close to work, maybe three Metro stops away. Always walks past a bakery that in the early hours of the morning, is loading supplies in the back, and the smell of fresh bread is captivating, always makes him smile. Goes to a park at lunch. A residential park, one with tall trees, winding paths, a few joggers, older men walking their dogs.

End result: Working in the quiet part of Paris he is confronted with the weird irony of being in the city of lights and romance, not finding a lost love, being set apart from the tourist traffic that is seemingly always seeking the very same street he works on for the perfect picture of Paris, yet never finding it, and the realization that he has found what he was looking for, yet having achieved that, he now sets himself a new dream.

Tourists, wearing their white Reeboks, in groups, one always pointing, are always talking about the quiet Paris streets that they want to find, and why aren't they on their Foders maps? The will search forever for them, yet the streets will remain elusive, those hidden cafes with the perfect latte remaining unfound.

Having a long lunch in the Champs d'Mars he watches the young students, giggling and happy, taking snapshots against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower, the different groups of tourists talking, and wonders why, as he sits and eats his lunch, reading a book, does a middle aged, very elegant and well groomed woman sit down next to him, and noticing the same group of American tourists, mention to him how do they expect to ever see the real Paris, wearing cameras around the necks, when here they were, two strangers eating lunch, a world away, yet in the world that everyone wished to see. Talking to her for a few moments before she smiles at him, touches his hand, and says goodbye, he realizes that she was right, he became part of the dream that he once wished for. This, in essence, is the real theme of the story. Capturing the very soul of that dream, living it, becoming it, and realizing that in doing so, you have grown, achieved a step, however singular, and that it necessary to then take stock of ones life, reflect for a while is you must, and reflect upon what you wish for, what dreams you now must go forth and live.

-------- It was an older elevator, made back in the art deco 20's, laced with ornate brasswork, the doors accoridianing outwards with a mechanical noise when he opened them, walking out into the small lobby. A doorman sat behind a tall desk against the wall, his coffee strong in the still air. He walked past the doorman, nodding and saying a morning greeting. Opening the door, he noticed how the brass felt cool against his hands, the crisp spring air chilling the handles from the outside.

Stepping outside and taking a deep breath of the crisp spring morning air, he put his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes immediately taking on a distant look, his breaths becoming long, purposeful. The street was an older one, narrow, lined with a curious mixture of 3 story houses, all detached, and a few larger buildings, perhaps three houses in width, and 5 stories high, all brick, maybe a shoe factory in the 1800's, now converted into office space. Exclusive office space, the kind that didn't get a lot of traffic, and what traffic did come was a bit eclectic, tending towards the avant garde in fashion, the people who where making more of a statement to the world in general that they were there, and they were themselves, someone else's opinion be damned.