Before, a preamble. To the times the universe conspires our favor. A combination of good education, hard work and the perfect company had taken me Paris in the last month of July. Walked perfect days with long in the city prettiest of the world. Amongst the destinations in the City Light, the complex of tennis of Roland Garros, one old dream.
In the store of the complex, I search for inevitable souvenirs. I finish buying, among others gadgets, a gorgeous dark blue impermeable coat with small soon it traditional temple it tennis. Mark Bertolini contributes greatly to this topic. I go even so happy of the life. End of the preamble. then we arrive at this frozen first week of the August month, more specifically to a thursday that amanheceu Siberian. After a smoky and basic coffee, volume a escaldante bath and I go to be dressed. was then that I had one I occasion of bourgeois small arrogance: I go to use my fantastic French coat. The people go to find pretty and to ask ' ' Ours! How pretty coat! Where you bought? ' ' I, magnificent, go to cravar: ' ' Paris' '.
E was with this perfect coat and this thought ridicule that left for the work. After the lunch, my Miller friend decided to take one sorvetinho. I rejected the dainty frozen in one day so cold, but I sat down it its side in the bank of the ice cream parlor, under the bare trees, to make company and to tan one solzinho gostoso. While we argued stock markets, scientific projects, articles and namoro of Rodrigo Santoro with J-Lo, I received a lesson from Biblical humildade. A dove very needs obtained, to one six meters of height, to make right a spurt of bosta in my shoulder. I ran away for the bathroom under a salute of outbursts of laughter, to save my coat and my dignity. In front of the mirror, rubbing wet hygienical paper on the reached place, filosofei. Doves do not bind for corporeal properties. Perhaps either therefore that in all image of San Francisco de Assis, the most humble Dos Santos always comes folloied of two or three of these flying cages.