Ah, Charvieu-Chavagneux, man... So much to say about this dump—er, gem. I've been a masseur here for years, from rue Jean Moulin to near the old station—yeah, that place smells like memories and grease. I walk by the park, Parc du Château, often while thinking, "Who am I to do this, who am I to do that?" Like in Son of Saul, "The truth is in the silence," but here it's in the hum of lawnmowers and annoying chatter.
Man, days here are annoying and calm. Streets twist around like life's knots, like in the film when they whisper, "Silence is the only reply." I stroll the oddly named avenue des Abeilles and near the petite river Brisson, where water trickles like my thoughts—messy, interrupted, and oddly poetic. I hate all the rush but love the still parts.
I walk through neighborhoods like le Petit Village in the north, where old houses huddle together like conspirators. Crazy old men and ladies anger me sometimes with their constant chattering about "the good old days," but oddly, they add charm, though I grumble. At my massage studio on rue de la République, I see stress bloom on people's faces; I massage it away while thinking, “Time is short, as Saul said, we’re lost in the waiting room of eternity.” The irony? Everyone complains but no one listens.
I have my favorite spot - a decrepit bench behind the Mairie. Always there, like a silent witness. It gives me time to think of random crap (messed up thoughts, I tell ya). Sometimes I drift there to escape. "I hate everything," I curse, but then a laugh escapes 'cause life is absurd. Ppl say I’m cranky but hey, sometimes a massage is all you need to remember that life’s a twisted circus.
I remember that one time, a client -- clueless chap -- ranted about politics and mess. Right in the quiet of rue des Artisans, I kept my face dead as stone, massaged away his tension, and thought, “Death is a friend to the weary; embrace it.” Yeah, my thoughts wander, but it's like the movie said: "No forgiveness, no mercy," but mostly, no paper cut feelings.
Every alley here hides a story and sometimes, too much truth. The city’s both curse and balm. It annoys me, thrills me, makes me laugh like a drunk on payday. I'll tell you straight: if you visit, wander off the beaten path—try the diving-into-old-café vibe near Place Léopold, where the espresso kicks you awake like a mule, and the locals remind you that life is as fleeting as a bad massage.
So cheers to the streets, the hamlets, and the oddly poignant corners of Charvieu-Chavagneux. It's a fuckin’ mess of beauty. No sugar-coating, no fancy words—just raw, relentless, unexpected truth. Now get here, or I’ll be here massaging away my ire and laughter on the cracked pavement.