No more lonelnéss

Late afternoon in the Paris underground. I'm on my way to the Tim Burton exhibition at Cinémathèque Française. Squeezed next to me is a charming middle-aged brunette with a frilly black hat on. Sprawled opposite me is an overweight old man with curly grey hair and inquisitive eyes.
Both frilly hat and I are staring at our iPhones. I am playing with my Instagram. She is texting.
From deep under the heavy blanket of my mobile swoon, I become aware of a heavy, overweight stare.
"No more lonelnéss." states the old man, emphasising the last syllable. His eyes are targeting my iPhone.
I smile politely continuing my quest for the right filter.
"No time to think".
Frilly hat's lips curve slightly into a sarcastic smile, her eyes still glued to the magical machine.
"No more dreams", the old man's monotonous recital carries on.
A pause. Then he looks at me questioningly.
"What is your professíon?" Heavy emphasis on the last syllable.
"I'm a dreamer", I answer politely, rather surprised by the sound of my statement.
"And what is your nationalitíe?" The emphasis on the last syllable is now blatantly grotesque.
"Bulgarian."
A baffled expression on my interrogator's face. Frilly hat is now looking up.
"Bulgaria." I explain politely. "A country in Eastern Europe."
"No exist.", pronounces the overweight man with curly gray hair and inquisitive eyes. Then he stands up and exits the vehicle.

Whoaw. Wahe guru. Several other transcriptions of elated exclamation.
I feel like I've just been granted a special award, a heavy (if not overweight) self-affirmation. Thank you, my dear travel companion and uncompromising interrogator for helping me come out as a dreamer from a country which does not exist. Voluntarily or not, you have ascribed to me the status of a legend so I'd better live up to it.

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