Railings are everywhere in France. Everywhere. They adorn everything—various sizes, intricate to plain Janes, straight-lace to curvy. Made of iron, they are made to last. I bet you could go to any part of France, Stand in one spot, pivot around, and you would find an iron railing. As I said, they are everywhere; look at these as if they are hanging out, waiting for something to happen to them; they have been waiting so long that they are rusty and growing tired with boredom.
As you know, I have a thing for old things. I had to take them out of their boredom and bring them home—not that I had anywhere in mind to put them other than somewhere in my imagination, thinking we would move and then I would have a home for them. But that corner of my imagination is never going to become a reality because Yann has a thing about not changing. Change for him equals spelunking for me.
So now those railings were growing bored in the garage. But for 20 Euros, I was not questioning my love for old things. Some people have clothes hanging in their closets with price tags still on them; I had railings in the garage and a few clothes in my closet with tags on them. At last, a friend wanted some railings, oh so old-fashioned French! And Voila, just like that, I felt like the Fairy Godmother.
They are happier now and still rusty, gathering admiration.
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