The artist was adept at watching the crowds which frequented the small avenue of songs, food, and art.  He was very good at watching them without being observed doing so.  There were many times this has helped him out... like his noticing the young foriegner with her hair shyly wrapped up in a scarf as if she were a Muslim.  He couldnt help but be slightly amused by the young woman... then more and more intrigued.  Still, he was an artist... he had his drawing to sell, he couldnt just walk over to her and ask her her name, he had to be patient.<br/><br/>Jean felt the hand of divine providence.  He was born poor, but trancended his status... mostly from the chances given him by his artistic talents.  If you sat back and waited long enough, what was meant to come to you would seek you out.  Even if you put a paper boat into the big blue sea, waves would drive it sooner or later back to you in one lazy arc.  This was a truth Jean felt intrinsicly.<br/><br/>Busying himself on one of his projects, this one kind of pedestrian... it was a bridge, but to him this was part of the themes he explored... arcs... crossroads... bursts of light through trees which looked to him like a halo right in the sky.  Things which symbolized the journey one took in life.  Symbols which told him somewhere... a greater being was somehow looking out for his progress along such a difficult path.  He wasnt sure most of his public got what he was trying to say through his charcoal drawings.<br/><br/>Looking up as his shy lark finally came to call on him.  Pausing on his picture as he seemed to think about it.  Drawing on his hand rolled cigarette, Jene glanced over at the picture she had indicated.  Nodding easily, he paused a moment before taking her hand.  Taking a rag and some cleaner, he knocked the charcoal smudge off of his hands before taking her own.  His hands were tough and strong.  Someone used to making a living with his hands all of his life.  His replied in an easy, natural tone of French.<em>"Jean.  Jean Dubois.  Glad to meet you.  May I say... you speak our language very welll.</em>"  He always had to respect a tourist who could actually committed to learning the French language... which was in Jean's humble opinion one of his nations treasures.  The way the words poured like melted chocolate.  Just reading a grocery list could sound like pillow talk on the silver lips of a well versed French speaker.<br/><br/>"<em>Calista, huh?  Well, now I know what to call a piece I have been working on for a few days now.</em>"  Jean searched some of his various art supplied and prints and a forgotten bagal from earlier before finally pulling out a small scroll like parchment with a ribbon tying it together.  A ribbon the color of Calista's scarf.  He smiled a bit embaressed as he finally surrendered it to her.  When she pulls the ribbon it will unroll to show a charcoal drawing of her, standing in her oversized clothing and scarf.  The wind whipping leaves by her, a single lock of her white hair seeming to escape the scarf and seek out the world waving gleefully like the tail of a kite.  "<em>Tell you what.  I am having a profitable day.  For your smile and the warm touch of a fellow human being... I can give you this one.  In fact, I would already call it yours.</em>"<br/><br/>Truth be told, he hadnt sold but two many prints that day, but Jean was always optimistic.  He had enough to get by every day and do what he loved to do.  He had good friends who helped him when he didnt have as much as he would like.  Could a man ask for more from his time on God's green earth?