One sparkling late May morning in 1952 when, after endless weeks of dreary, unrelenting winterlike weather, the sun had finally wormed its way through the stubborn gray blanket that had been clinging to Paris, I was sitting on the terrace of the Cafe' Royal at St. Germain des Pres, pretending to read the paper but really watching the world go by, a constant stream of locals and a trickle of tourists - the latter so obvious they could have been picked from the crowd even by the familiar cyclopean beggar who went, appropriately, by the name of Petit Jesus, bowing scraping low at the church door across the sqaure, his floppy beret extended to welcome the occasional oblation -- the Parisian girls suddenly out in full force, piquant and pert in their flowered smocks and blouses, their swirling skirts and high-toned legs. After seven drab months of hibernation, they had, seemingly overnight, emerged in full flower,a medley of primary colors, proclaming that winter was finally, irrevocably over. Each colorful passerby, floozy or Flora, just waiting to be plucked.
These magic words paint a color and interesting picture of busy Paris morning.
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