Parisian Saturday

I wake from deep sleep, having returned to sleep after an early morning bathroom trip, and without recourse to any meditation. I wake deeply, from a slumber that I want to have been refreshing. It’s 0745, and I was asleep by 2230 the previous night. These numbers represent a good quantity of sleep, feeding my waking analytical self. I recall being awake for only a short while earlier, another indicator of good sleep. 

Yet, I feel groggy. Dryness of mouth, to be expected in a room with no air flow. To be expected also on waking from a deep sleep, from tiredness, from that last glass of wine with my Poivron Farci Riz in Cafe Beaubourg, around the corner. Not too alcohol much consumed, I comfort myself. My drinks across the day were so well spaced out, across time and subject and mood and meaning. This is a fascinating subtext to my few days in Paris, my five drinks in total on Champagne Day are the most of my trip. 

Enough analysis and counting, calculating, comparing, I tell myself, gentle firmness in my silent voice. I continue with the momentum, the energy flow which I feel. This suggests that I shower and dress, leave the apartment, and take my morning meditation with me. Part of me, a wise part, asks myself, is this wise? Meditation first thing is a cornerstone of my safe space in recent weeks, isn’t it? I feel good, and my emotions suggest that I stay with the feel good, get going. I trust these emotions, and on I go.  My momentum and energy, on this Parisian Saturday morning, take me forward unerringly from bed to shower and dressing and packing and leaving bookish L’s apartment with purpose.

I search for bookish L’s mailbox, which is not obvious, before I prepare to leave the building, as I have chosen to drop his key in this given I have no other guidance on what to do with the keys. Then, I sense movement, and he appears at the internal glass door, a little concerned and almost frantic. He clearly did not want the keys to go in a mailbox, luckily I hadn’t found one which could have been his, and I hand him the keys with smiles of Au Revoir and Thank You. He’s an intriguing little guy, something enigmatic in him, difficult to see and sense from our limited interactions

My outside greeting from the morning is that air and light and clarity and space. I smile, inhaling, drinking this all in. Sensing where my energy and momentum are taking me, I set off, taking what I consider to be a route that I have not taken in the past few days. I walk across the road and head directly north, on Rue Saint-Martin. This is a narrow, cool, shaded street, with bars and cafes and shops and hangouts. All are closed, and their quiet names and visuals remind me of what I spotted on Thursday and Friday evening, namely the thriving gay scene in the local area around Beaubourg.  

Quite quickly I consider that I may be a little early for Paris on a Saturday morning. Yes, some bakeries are open, none that appeal though, as I am intent on finding one which bakes on the premises and offers the promise of good coffee. These may well be illusory, yet they are important focus points for my new direction wandering. 

Across the street, some distance now from Beaubourg and where I started the morning, I see an attractive modern-looking cafe. I cross Rue Saint-Martin and, liking what I see in Bo & Mie, I choose this as my breakfast destination. The pastry and patisserie selection is bountiful, looks so fresh, and oozes that just-made sense and aroma of mornings in a bakery. In Paris, in a French cafe, pretty, and here. 

Cafe au Lait et Croissant aux Amandes s’il vous plait? I smile, proud of my few words. They seem too impressive, as I am showered by several questions. A puzzled look leads to immediate translation – Eat in or take away? Would you like fresh orange juice also? Smile, nod, confirm oui to eating in and oui to juice. To myself, I whisper that I need my morning ritual coffee, accompanied by freshly squeezed juice adds some indulgence, as does some freshly baked wonder food. All this, in a quiet space to finish off beginning my day, with some writing and some meditation. While not regretting my earlier decision to leave without my morning meditation, I acknowledge that its time now for my daily space of unremembering emptiness.      

……..

He appears in my vision from the left. From Rue Saint-Martin, onto the side street of Rue Sainte-Apolline. I first notice him directly, rather than peripherally, as he moves left again and drops what looks like an empty spirit half bottle into the bin. These bottles have a global shape, square shoulders on a square bottle. Returning to his station, my eyes follow, my mind’s curiosity ahead of my eyes. He reaches up for the coffee cup with no lid. This stands on an electrical junction box, about his head height, a perfect shelf for small belongings. Beside the cup is a soft drink bottle, orange label, branding unclear from this distance, part full. His station is beneath the Rue Sainte-Apolline street sign. He takes a sip from his cup, and places it back on his shelf, in his station, as if in his own home. His movements and presence have a familiarity to them. He knows where he is, and exudes quiet rootedness. 

I continue sipping my coffee, and mopping flakes of my croissant, finger-led mopping. I write a few lines in my journal, and look up to see he has placed another half bottle – the label design, at this distance, suggests rum or a similar spirit – on his shelf, beside the cup and the orange bottle., in his station. 

Standing at the corner, just standing there, a guardian of something, perhaps? He has a sense of purpose about him, and is evidently not a street-dwelling man. Too smart for this, I begin to notice, too smart. Not quite proud, assured in an uncertain way  He is comfortable here, in this space, exuding an air of soft control and belonging, in this corner of Paris on a Saturday morning. My sense is that of a man in his office, a self-made man, as he nods to a passer or two, exchanging brief greetings, and with a shop owner from around this corner. This is his office, his behaviours suggest, as he checks his mobile phone for messages, types a few messages, makes a call. 

Wearing smart clean Adidas trainers, orange uppers, on his feet. His tummy protrudes a little, as he is not fat, through an Ecru coloured sweater, beneath a fur-fringed hooded SuperDry coat. Dreadlocks hang from beneath his smart beanie, pouring down to below his jaw line a little. He wears a tidy short beard. Jeans are dark, made of fabric which appears softer than denim, and I can’t see any label. They also look smart. He wears glasses all the time, bigger framed, they suit him, accentuating an intelligent and expressive face. For a moment, he seems lost, as he peers at his phone, face showing a sadness, a disappointment. This passes, and he resumes his belonging, as it appears to me, belonging here. 

My curiosity is about who he is? What is his position, role, in life? What is his life? Why is he here, living and being alive, on this corner? There are no clues to hint at answers for any of these questions. Only my empathy and my imagination can help, in limited ways. 

He empties whatever is in his half bottle into his copy cup, and places the empty bottle on the pavement beneath his station. Not in the bin, a few paces to his left, as he did with his earlier bottle. His presence settles more, it seems. He is in his Operations centre, controlling his Parisian fiefdom from this space on the corner. His rented office with his station and his communications, in the co-working space of the streets. As he waits, he watches, he observes. A few salutations, gestures mainly, few verbals to occasional passers on Rue Saint-Martin. Nodding gently to himself, mouth angled across his face on his tilted head, depth of thought taking hold for a few moments before returning to his phone. A call, a conversation of short sentences, thumbs up salutation to a passer-by, then quiet. The roller shutter on the shop window behind him is lifted, from inside the store where there is no one visible through a window filled with personal care and household goods on very full shelving. 

His conversation by phone continues with its short sentences, then ends. His short black scarf is now visible to me, as his demeanour changes and he becomes more animated following the conversation. Pacing, a few to his right, then to his left. He knows the boundaries of his Operations centre, and where his station is, as if by familiarity alone. Stopping, perfectly, without looking, he is beside his station and picks up his coffee cup, sips, again, then puts it down. 

Surprise now, as he unscrews the top of his orange label bottle and tips its remaining contents into his cup. This empty bottle is placed on the station, beside the cup, where it was before being emptied. Not consigned to the basement on the pavement, beside the empty spirit bottle, no obvious reason for this differential treatment of empty bottles. From his station, he can look up Rue Saint-Martin, now ruefully and a little expectantly. No one shows to fulfill this expectation, so he paces to the corner and looks down Rue Saint-Martin, bestowing greeting to a shop owner bringing bags of rubbish to the pavement, his morning shop ablutions. Polite acknowledgement over his shoulder, the shop owner scurries back whence he came, whence the rubbish came. 

I see my cold Rasta return to his station, in his Operations centre, here in the co-working space of the streets.

……

My coffee is empty, no bottles for me to top up with, and there is a queue for coffee in here. Time to meditate, maybe the queue will have shortened in ten minutes.