By Mister de Paris It shines and attracts the eye is only on the broad desert pavement, nice to rollerblade. Miss Earth is in Paris which saw her first. I thought it was a capsule, then a five-franc piece, I turned around, got on his knees. It looks like a coin stuck, screwed into the cement, not available to passers for quite some time. Arago here? No, it's just a medal, a Soviet. I know nothing in Russian, but there wrote CCCP and BOD (*), and represented a huge shooter sickle, hammer and five-pointed red stars. So what do here, this memory of tin? Screwed there by whom and why? A Stalinist fundamentalist? An activist of coconut heyday of the PC? A Bolshevik alternative? A remnant of protest disputing the years? I do not know. But it is there, like Excalibur in its granite innamovible, all in mystery and arrogance. 
I will not tell you where she is because she is too good in this juice, sun sidewalk, right in Paris. Maybe a day of entertainment you've even stepped on ...
(*) anyone ever happens to read (and translate!) The allegory of this medal? 
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