First, the Champs-Élysées and their habit, in recent years, of turning out to be really infrequent.
Sheep on pedestrian Sundays, wild on the evening of victory, no better on the march than in a match, lost between yellow vests and golden bracelets.
Those aren't just one shot away, so why not the elevator.
Laurent de Gourcuff and his Paris Society (Girafe, Monsieur Bleu, Coco, Loulou, Perruche, Piaf) would have struck again.
At no 52, look up!
Night suddenly cuts through the Art Deco of one of the last liners of its kind.
Lower them!
A hall imposes the mascara of its marble, as vast as boredom or dreams.
A man-in-black under the earpiece, a hostess in a kimono silhouette, a button, a cabin.
With the masks, it almost feels like
Mission: Impossible
to wonder where the scenario leads.
Opium cosmetics
Seven floors further, higher, we pass the
James Bond side
.
Where are the Champs, where is Paris, where are we?
Hong Kong?
Shanghai?
More surely in an Asia of fantasy,
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