Morning in Paris: Croissants, Coffee, and Cobblestones

Paris has a morning that is quiet in some way. They do not jump out of bed; they get up gradually, as the tune when it starts has only one note.

I recall how I came out of my small apartment in Rue Saint-Antoine and the air was still cool with the slight scent of bread baked somewhere.

The city was not yet quite awake, but there were people in the little noises, personal intonations on the street, the squeak of a bicycle chain, the clatter of shutters being thrown open.

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Today was my second day there and I vowed to myself that it was going to be slow. I had a desire to visit Paris before it grew to be the Paris of everybody, before the hustle and bustle, before the noise, when it was still reaching its arms to the sun.

The Breakfast of the New

An outwardly looking warm wind took me to a corner bakery. The door was open, the atmosphere in the room heavy with the smell of butter and sugar. A woman in front of the counter was stacking trays of croissants all of them shining and brown.

I selected one which was out of the oven, and requested a little cup of coffee. She smiled and nodded, as though she had observed a thousand another sleep-walker of mine come in before sunrise.

It was nearly impossibly too good to be described in the first bite. Flakes disintegrated so easily and the inside was tender, nearly sweet. I was standing at the window with both hands grasping my cup as I looked out and saw the world outside getting itself into harmony.

One of the gentlemen moved by in a navy coat with a baguette in his arm. A woman was holding the hand of her child running down the street. Even the pigeons had appeared indifferent to this, passing to and fro between tables, as though they, too, had made this place their home.

The Walk That Never Ends

I started walking aimlessly after breakfast. It is best to know Paris as it should surprise you. The streets wound and turned, leading this way and that to hidden, or concealed, courtyards, or small bridges across the Seine.

I came to the flower store where buckets of tulips were stooping into the light, and the proprietor was humming to herself as she sprayed them.

Around the next turn I came to a cafe which was just opening, the tables being stacked, and the waiter wiping one after another.

Tenderly the city had awakened, not with a clatter, not in a hurry, but in the graceful manner peculiar to the city itself. I sat down, leaning on the stone wall a few moments by the river.

The light was reflected in the water as in glass, and it seemed almost as though breathing to hear the sound of the water flowing under the bridges.

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A Little Time and A Corner Cafe.

I then took my seat at a little cafe over at Ile Saint-Louis. The waiter apparently accepted my order with an inclination of the head, and he had a towel on his shoulder.

The coffee was thick and opaque and I was drinking it slowly at a time and I could feel the warmth. Two old gentlemen were playing cards across the street. They quarrelled and their laughter came shortly thereafter. One of the chairs had a sleeping dog that did not mind the noise.

I viewed it not as a spectator, but as a tourist who needed to remember the small things of silence, that smelled of fresh bread, that the rays of light were upon the rooftops and how people glanced at one another in conversation.

Time didn't matter here. Simply to sit down and have a breath and be a part of some time was sufficient.