Stories, Thoughts and Snippets
Cafe Culture 1 Cafe Culture 2 Cafe Culture 3 Cafe Culture 4
I looked at the watch on my wrist, and turned back to my book. It was late enough for a drink to be acceptable, and it never seemed wrong to have a drink alone in Paris. A kir was best with a dry white wine to offset the sweetness of the currant. There had been a time, long ago, when I drank often, I did not miss the drink, but I missed the parties. I missed the attention and the lights and the game of it all. Jibril had always told me that such a game could not go on forever, and it could not have any winners. I think he was right, I think the only winners were those that were able to leave the game and not miss it, to start something new without longing for the past. Jibril was one of those, he never spoke of those days, but also never seemed to care when someone else did.
There were some American students in the cafe, the waiter paid particular attention to them, mostly to the girls I suspect. They seemed a little loud, but it was only because they were in a group, and they were happy. I doubted they were happy about anything in particular, I think they were just happy. They were speaking in French, trying to at least, some better than others, but none of them were fluent. I looked over my book out on the street. There was a woman, not much older than I was, in fairly fashionable dress walking along the street with her arm around the lower back of a much older woman. I took her to be her mother. They moved faster than I would have thought the older woman would be comfortable doing, and they conversed in a lively fashion. I would have liked to hear what they were saying.
I took a last look at my watch, folded my book and replaced it in my bag. I had decided to make the walk up to montemartre, I was wearing comfortable shoes, and I was not yet so old that I could not climb a hill if I wanted to. Besides it would take about an hour to do it, and I did not feel like sitting in the cafe all of that time.