The Art of Coin Fishing The pockets of his blazer sag with books. Ronsard’s Amours. Cervantes. La Fontaine. His thread-the-needle scarf, his cigarette somehow suspended at his lip, unlit, mark him as Latin Quarter retiree, still a man of letters, philosophe. He fishes from the fountain, casts a glance at me between his casts; he reels his line, inspects his catch, suppresses a smile. In this Paris pocket park, I’m hooked. The fountain yields to him Euros, francs and kronen, Dutch and Danish, Queen Margarethe in bright profile. The pool’s distorting waters make the coins seem near the surface.
You can profit from this sport, madame. The line, wound round his hand, drags at a little dust pan, and entices other tourists’ wishes.
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The pennies are but minnows. Best catch them and release, madame. If you’re patient they’ll grow up into Euros. Really, madame, no one cares for pennies.