Karen is going to have tea and oatmeal. I loathe oatmeal and taking orders. And more so, demands to know my Plans-for-the-Day before I’ve had coffee.
I was the only patron at the Boulangerie de la Butte aux Cailles, because the French don’t hurl themselves out of their apartments like Californians from South Carolina, ahem. I have crumbs from an excellent mini-crossant, pain au chocolat, sticking to my lips and an excellent mug of coffee beside my journal.
I wonder if the French get tired of this school girl naivete that presumes to study them from cafe tables? (Will a few French customers please step in so I can notice you?)
I will never tire of cafés. In our Parisian neighborhood, several to a block. I felt loss returning cars and freeway structure in California. Friends assured me there are cafés in San Jose. But you have to drive to get to them.
What a café speaks to me is this wonderful value people find in talking to each other…and sitting and thinking, or having a drink or two. Socializing, at once casual and sophisticated.
A café is like a writing attitude.
Invite your ideas to sit down with you. Do a bit of idle noticing….maybe have another cup of coffee and scribble a bit. There’s no hurry. And perhaps you can tell a friend when the words are there. Or not.