Sipping his rosé wine, mumbling. He’s one of the many clochards in Vieux Nice.
If he wasn’t so drunk, he could actually see the people enjoying the richnesses of life.
Grabbing for another beer, meanwhile begging for “a small piece”.
Every morning ambulances come by to see if any of the clochards have died during the night. The city of Nice wouldn’t want to confront early beach visitors with corpses.
Most clochards here have their “own” sleeping places, like these three guys in Place du Palais de Justice, right in front of the court house.
I kept this photo small because it’s terribly out of focus. I published it anyway, because this guy is pretty aggressive and it’s hard to make a picture of him. The other day I watched him from my window, when he walked through my street. Obviously he was in an imaginary fight with someone, a woman, because he kept shouting “pute!” (whore), giving the non-present lady fierce butts with the head and spitting in her face. I have never seen so much aggression in a man.
The clochards of Vieux Nice have one thing in common: they are all alcoholics.