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I've been in and out of this city for several
years using cafes as most transient travellers use them -- places
to drink, places to arrange meetings, places to use the toilette.
It wasn't until recently that I decided transience was no excuse.
I might as well find myself a usual cafe. A center for my life in
Paris. But choosing a "usual" cafe isn't the same thing
as just picking a trendy place, or a cheap place or even a beautiful
place in the center of the city. My choice of cafe d'habitude is
an act of defining myself.
Where to begin? I guess the nearest corner
cafe will do for a start. The first one I see is called Au Depart
and it's rather typical for a place on the Boulevard St. Michel
just across from the Jardins Luxembourg. The view from my seat is
postcard perfect. Perhaps too perfect for everyday life. And it
seems the place has a transient crowd and a transient atmosphere.
There are no regulars to speak of at the bar and the people who
come to sit at the tables leave quickly after just one drink. It
is just another stop on their itinerary or a convenient location
to meet friends. The prices are too high to encourage people to
stay for more than one drink.
I know I would end up broke in no time
at all if I came here on a daily basis.
Continuing along the Boulevard St. Michel
I decide to try one of the large "perfect" cafes across
from the fountain. Bad idea. The place is beautiful-no question
about that. The charming interior is much as it must have been in
the twenties. Beautiful art nouveau chandeliers reflect themselves
in the smoked mirrors. The waiters seem like actors chosen because
they seem like the perfect waiters. But despite all the perfection,
the place has no character. It is a museum. A place for tourist
to come and see so they can say they were in a real authentic Parisian
cafe. I have the urge to leave quickly even before the perfect waiters
had a chance to take my order. I know it would be perfect no matter
what I'd choose.
I cross the Seine and walk to Chatalet
where there are probably more cafes per square meter than any place
else. Deciding which one to try is a dilemma. I have neither enough
time nor enough money to try them all.
In the end my choice is random. I sit down
at an outdoor table at the Rive Droit facing the square and as far
as possible from the Burger King next door. This too is a tourist
cafe, but there is something good about it. The atmosphere is just
right. The posters on the walls inside are perfect. The work of
a local photographer hangs intermingled with the cinema ads. A waiter
brings my demi and then goes to stand in the doorway and chat with
his colleague while the harsh sunlight makes me squint. But the
sun is warm and so is this cafe. I know I'll return here even though
its too expensive to become my "regular" place.
All the cafes in this area seem to benefit
from the heavy tourist traffic to be a bit too expensive to become
"regular" places. I continue my quest, walking North.
Along the Boulevard Sebastopol in the Sentier,
the center of the Parisian garment district I wander into a cafe
at just the moment when the garment workers have gotten off work.
A group of regulars are crowding up to the bar. I decide to sit
at one of the empty tables and just observe the friendly banter
of the workers. I regret not being a part of it. Their closeness
makes my loneliness conspicuous. I finish my café and walk
outside continuing my search.
Near rue Myhra and Boulevard Barbes just
in front of the Chateau Rouge Metro exit where the police are again
checking the papers of anyone and everyone who is not lily white
there is a large and loud cafe crowded, mostly with men. I enter
anyway and at the bar the bar-man is quick to take my money from
the counter after pouring my drink. A video juke box plays in one
corner and the tables fill up with men who have nothing else to
do on a hot summer day.
I sit at a table too, looking out onto
the chaos of boulevard Barbes. The whirlwind colours of African
traditional dress set off the deep black skin of a woman with four
little children trailing behind. The shopkeepers continue to shout
the lure of the bazaars although they are far from the casbah where
their shouts originated. An old arab woman is standing with her
back to me. I can't stop looking at her hands. Twisted and wrinkled,
calluses that reflect something of the sun, or perhaps something
of creation-hands that have made things.
When the old woman leaves I do too.
Further along the boulevard I encounter a small place with two plastic
tables just outside the door and lopsided chairs that rock back-and-forth
diagonally even though the sidewalk is more or less smooth. I sit
under the awning, resting my back against the dirty glass doors
with the chipped blue-marine painted wooden frames. I wait for the
waiter who doesn't come. Finally, a bit thirsty, I get up and go
to the bar to ask for a demi. The Algerian behind the counter slowly
polishes a glass with his dishrag and smiles as he tapped my Kronenberg.
He places the glass on a coaster just as the white foam begins to
flow down the side onto the already beer-soaked bar. Then he makes
half an effort to soak up the little lake with a rag too wet to
absorb another drop.
Two older men sat on either end of the
counter separated by perhaps half-a-dozen people. I liked something
about this assortment of faces. Two young men, hanging out, not
working, drinking the day away. A middle aged blonde woman sipping
down a strong drink while her dog sniffed the floor around the workers
who drank their liquid lunch and argued with each other about the
complexities of politics, economics and a young woman who just walked
in. The young woman didn't notice the workers, the old men, the
young hoods, the middle aged woman or her dog. She walked directly
to the bar, asked for something (I didn't hear what) and sat at
a corner table.
I accepted my second beer "on the
house," and answered a friendly question put to me by the Algerian
on behalf of all the patrons. A chicly dressed young man joined
the chicly dressed young woman at the corner table in the back.
I settled into my chair as the music in the background segued into
"Cool" by Samia Farah.
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