Just an Ordinary Day

“Music makes the people and the bourgeoisie come together” – Madonna

Spring at the Seine

Spring finally showed up. Not shyly—everything seemed to explode at once: lilacs, tulips, cornflowers, and other blooms she didn’t know the names of filled the air with their scents. About time, she thought. It was already April, and in Paris, winter always overstays its welcome.

The cold lingers. The streets stay wet. Grey skies hover over grey buildings. The metro is a swamp of layered coats and enormous puffer jackets smelling faintly of mothballs and yesterday’s dinner. Water drips onto the floor, mingling with wet shoe prints. Faces are drained, tired, almost as if the blood has stopped flowing.

Not everyone looks like that, though. Some commuters seem to ride on a whim, almost as a bet: “Let’s see if you can survive rush hour in Paris.” Their coats are dry, shoes polished, and a strange mix of amusement and disgust dances across their faces.

Spring is different. Birds chirping before the first rays of sun come out. Dogs running wildly, rolling in fresh grass with all four legs in the air. Kids laughing, chasing a ball, running around. Old people sitting on park benches, slowly taking off the layers that kept the cold from settling in their bones. Colour returning. It’s as if someone picked up the grey sketch of winter and splashed it with colour, scent, and sound—an invitation to notice the world again.

Even the burden of daily metro rides feels different. People seem happier. Still preoccupied with meals and bills, kids’ clothes and global events, but happier. Lighter. Knowing they can have a break between work and home. They can sit on a park bench or on a terrace, read the papers, feed the pigeons, close their eyes and feel the warm breeze.

It was a day for that, and she was determined to take it. A bank holiday, ideal to spend at the Seine. Her favourite spot, especially in spring when it puts on its cat-eye green coat again. The Seine is a perfect place to see the transformative energy of Parisian spring. It stops being only the famous river where tourists come to take a quick selfie for Instagram and run back to the warmth and coziness of bars and cafés.

Hundreds of people claim both of its banks—they sit on grass, on concrete, in one of the few bars, eating, chatting with friends, enjoying a cold beer or a glass of wine and a sandwich in a paper wrapper. Kids rushing on their bicycles, dogs tugging on leashes, eager to meet and play.

Immersed in her book, she still enjoys people’s laughter, gossip, glances, shared joy. She feels quietly grateful to live moments like this, surrounded by people from all walks of life. It almost feels like the echo of Madonna’s song Music. All the mixed couples and groups of friends make her feel like she is part of this cosmopolitan world people talk about. Feeling the sun on her skin, a good novel in her hands, thoughts merging with the river—what more is there to ask?

Amidst the river of people walking along the Seine, someone stopped abruptly. She didn’t notice him immediately. She felt the pause before she saw it. When she lifted her eyes from the book, there he was—a man, standing alone, just a meter from her. He didn’t speak, didn’t sit. He stood there as if it was exactly where he had meant to arrive.

At first, she didn’t understand why. In Paris, like in most big cities, it is not uncommon to be approached by a stranger. Sometimes they want directions, a cigarette, or a coin. Other times, they want you to buy a trinket—an entire Eiffel Tower for five euros. Sometimes it’s a story. But he didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t offer anything. He stood firmly in his long black coat, almost swallowed by it. Like a statue—no movement, no expression, and still there was something about him, some unusual pride.

No one seemed to notice him. If they did, they didn’t see anything more than a minor disruption in their otherwise perfect day. Am I the only one who sees him? She tried to go back to her novel, but curiosity pulled her away.

Then she heard it. Not far from where she was sitting, two young men, barely older than eighteen, were fully absorbed in conversation. Next to them—a bicycle and the biggest Bluetooth speaker she had ever seen.

That was it. The music.

He had stopped because of it.

She watched him more carefully now. He didn’t move closer, didn’t interrupt. He simply stood there, listening. Something in him leaned toward the sound—as if it spoke to him in a language he understood without effort.

She followed his gaze. The music wasn’t her kind, something popular among younger people, probably made on a computer. But now, listening more closely, she could hear it too—something human beneath the mechanical beat.

He smiled, almost imperceptibly, waiting for some kind of connection. A glance, a nod, anything that would say: we hear the same thing.

But nothing came.

The two young men ignored him completely. If anything, they looked slightly annoyed, as if their private moment had been intruded upon.

He didn’t insist. Didn’t speak. He just stayed a little longer, absorbing what he could. Then, one last glance—perhaps hoping for something to shift—and it didn’t.

When he understood, he picked up his bag from the ground and walked away, chin slightly raised, a faint, scornful smile on his face.

She went back to her novel, knowing there was nothing she could have done. Life continued as if nothing had happened. And maybe nothing had. Someone had simply been ignored.

Not a big thing.

Just another small scar added to the many he probably already carried.

But he carried it with that same scorn on his face. And maybe that was his small victory of the day.

She looked at the two men again, searching for some trace of reaction, but they were completely absorbed in themselves.

She felt a brief wave of sadness.

Then the image of the man returned to her—the way he had walked away, chin slightly raised, that faint, scornful smile still there.

She went back to her book.

It was still, somehow, a perfect day.