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The polaroids of Dave –Part One


Paris, 1:30pm, a September day, a restaurant on the rue de Richelieu: two couples, two tables, a dozen empty tables. Ten tourists stop in and ask for a free table. The owner quickly replies “I’m so sorry, we’re full.” The owner’s name is Dave. The restaurant bears hisname. He doesn’t like tourists. He doesn’t own a restaurant, but a salon that at nightfall transforms into a sort of international Mecca of photo, cinema and fashion specialists.

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