Paris is a city one would like to know. There are metal ping pong tables in the parks.
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Walking is one of the sports. The map is the playbook, how you use it is a question.
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Leaning over the low terrace railing with a cigarette is a form of gymnastics.
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Around noon, the joggers come out.
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A man dumps a bag of silver pétanque balls onto the dusty ground by the canal. He whistles for a game.
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By a wall in the square a group of teenagers pass around a pair of tied-together red boxing gloves. When a boy hangs them from his neck a girl rushes up and hugs him.
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Every once in a while somebody is traveling by skateboard. And sometimes on roller skates.
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Bicycling while carrying an open umbrella is not so much sport as it is art.
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A sculpture of a dog dreams of rugby, if that is possible.
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The light gray tennis shoes are on sale. They have smooth white laces on them, and they come with a clear pouch of dark gray laces.
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Now, let’s take the metro to the racecourse.
