I looked on a map of Paris, a recent map. I am a crazy card. Give me a map Blay-Foldex Orleans for an opportunity and I'll be happy. I spend an hour dissecting the map and locate unpublished stuff. In addition, I like the cards Blay-Foldex, they sometimes make mistakes. Also, it feune correct the shape of a building that does not correspond to reality or to see a street has a bend when it is straight.
Spontaneously, I watched the thirteenth arrondissement. I do not know why. I like it a borough. I think I know him a little. I started looking for names of streets which had a spring flavor, rustic, timeless timed pass and the capital. The thirteenth is filled. But I made all the outlying districts of the capital, finally, from the twelfth, all the territory that was incorporated in Paris in 1860. Also, at the time, there was the barrier of the farmers general (eighteenth century) which surrounded Paris and beyond, villages more or less already integrated. Charonne Auteuil as the latter seem to have been remote villages of the capital, at the time of enlargement. Of all this territory, I found the constant remembrance of the mills. There were windmills everywhere, not just at Montmartre rue du Moulin de la Pointe, Mill Meadow, large mills (XIII, rue des Grands Moulins can also mean silos), High Street Green, the mill rabbits, the windmill of the Virgin, the three mill yard cones in the fourteenth, if not stupidly called mill that is repeated almost everywhere (or street millers in the twelfth).
I just likes nothing that these streets evoking the mundane activities of men. Provided that these streets are still resisting the onslaught of names that pollutes our cities, names of doctors and unsung heroes that we gorge. Many streets still evoke fortunately, always with a touch of poetry, activities and atmosphere rustic of that time: street gardeners, orchards alley, street fund green street Marguet (?) Trail of cherry alley from clipboard, strawberry lane, crossing the yard, cross street ... for one twelfth. What is perfectly ordinary in another city acquires Paris eminently poetic dimension, opposite the town full of humans, cars, shouting matches, random violence and unobtrusive. But I am being unfair: what is commonplace is deeply beautiful, everywhere. In France, three-quarters of girls were named Jane, in the Middle Ages, names of streets and alleys that evoked the present, life, work, religion, finally, what is (street ditches, street from the oven, my village). Why do men have they struggled to worship which is not secretly (streets of brotherhood, justice, welfare) or what is more: all these names vainglory, tiring, all these deaths that should be forgotten. Modern fear of death is seen in our cities while our cemeteries are distant from the center and treated shamefully in the way Officer (graveyard was stuffed between the highway and the railway track), invade the dead toponymy, and while we should forget them and live, they live on in us, by the imaginary, the fear of living the present.
continued ... My
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