Three Means 1

Odd Twins

    Dulce finally made it to Paris after spending 23 hours on a bus. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes, a scent she was used to but which the French seemed to indulge in excessively. She could easily identify them as French by the protest signs they carried with them on the bus.

    "C'est à cause de vous, étudiants ingrats. Cette génération est devenue de la merde!" An older man yelled at a group of guys sitting across from Dulce. She could sense the tension rising between them. The animated gestures and raised voices indicated that the conversation was escalating into an argument. Dulce shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the situation would ease before it escalated further.

    (Translation: It's because of you ungrateful students. This generation has turned shit!)

    "À mon époque, la musique était propre, sûre, positive. Japlin, cet homme noir Hendrix, putain de Bob Dylan... ils ont tous détruit vos esprits avec des paroles rebelles!" The man yelled once more, his finger pointing accusingly at the protest signs.

    (Translation: In my day the music was clean, safe and positive.  Japlin, that black man Hendrix, fucking Bob Dylan ... they all destroyed your minds with rebellious words!)

    Dulce clenched her bag tightly, and felt a creeping sense of unease as she prepared for anything that might escalate. The protesters appeared to remain calm, or so she thought, until one of them suddenly stood up.

    "C'est pourquoi nous faisons ces protestations. Votre génération était composée d'un groupe de chattes qui avaient toujours peur de parler et maintenant nous sommes obligés de le faire pour notre propre bien." the guy who stood up declared.

    (Translation: This is why we are making these protests.  Your generation was made up of a bunch of pussies who were always afraid to speak up and now we are forced to do so for our own good.)

    As the bus came to a stop, the doors swung open, causing excited screams from the protesters inside. The air was charged with the energy of a revolution, wrapping around Dulce and sending a shiver up her spine.

    In the middle of the chaos, the group of guys rushed out of the bus, holding spray paint bottles and white posters adorned with incomprehensible handwriting. Before leaving, the one who had stood up turned back and uttered, "La prochaine fois, ferme ta putain de gueule." With a disdainful glance, he spat on the ground in front of the older man's dress shoes.

    (Translation: Next time, keep your fucking mouth shut)

    As the door closed behind them, Dulce was left shaken by the intensity of the encounter. Her first experience in Paris had been stained by violence, leaving her with a sinking feeling of regret.

    Avoiding eye contact with the old man, Dulce hurriedly made her way out of the bus. Despite her efforts, she couldn't help but overhear his warning.

    "Ne tombez pas dans la tentation avec ces protestations. Ne devenez pas parmi eux!" he yelled.

    (Translation: Do not fall into temptation with these protests. Do not become one of them!)

    She rolled her eyes at his words once she knew he couldn't see her and quickly moved towards the nearest building, holding her bag tightly. The encounter had left her feeling uneasy, but she pushed the old man's warning words to the back of her mind, determined to navigate her way through Paris on her own.

    As Dulce looked around the area, she was surprised by the quietness that covered the surroundings. There were no chants of protests nor sounds of bottles breaking, yet groups of young people sat on benches or stood around them, engaged in conversations. Their protest signs gave away their true purpose.