In Montparnasse station, a Friday evening, first day of holiday, the crowd is thick.
A woman, forty years olds and hurry mood, catch my arm “Miss, I have to leave right now
and let my old uncle alone in this mess. Could you stay with him and help him
to take his train ? It’s about one hour.”

 

So here I am with André Lecompte, a man from another time. Our bench is a raft
in a sea of luggages. Around us is a twister of colorful polo shirts with sweat stains.
“I like stations”, he says, “because it is like life : people get in, get out.”