Paris - Day 3

Not only writers, but also musicians like Frederic Chopin and Edith Piaf, artists like Claude Monet and Coco Chanel have lived in this city. Paul Auster, one of my favourite authors, moved to Paris at age twenty-three. He earned his living by translating French literature and stayed a couple of years. Now he lives in New York. One of the many reoccuring themes in his books is failure; often in relation with disillusion. A heavy word, pregnant with sadness and disappointment. A word that everyone is scared of.

Today was a super cold day, seasoned with heavy rain and annoying wind. I left to get something from the nearby supermarket - some bread and cheese - and barely made my way back to the hotel. For the rest of the midday I stayed in, reading this and that, writing a little. To think about that I am in Paris, residence of choice for so many great writers, I felt like I should go out and search libraries for clues, book stores for ideas, coffee shops for inspiration. But a look outside was just too overwhelming.

In the late afternoon I managed to be more active. I met Bosccono not far away and we checked out the streets for a nice place to have dinner. Unable to find an open kitchen we settled for a small pub at the corner of the main street. It was brightly lit and people were gathering around the bar. As soon as we stumbled in, they detached their attention from a television screen above the entrance and gave us looks that said, you guys don't belong here. We looked at each other and walked in anyway.

We picked a table in the last corner and observed the rest of the place. A man who looked as if he was lost too came up to us and asked what we wanted. I tried my best pronouncing: "Bon soir, est-ce que vous avez du vin chaud?" And the man didn't understand. "Speak anglaise?" he said, "what you want". I can't say I wasn't offended a little bit, but what can you do. I honestly tried my best and it wasn't appreciated at all. So Bosccono asked him in English. That's when he left.

We looked at each other and couldn't help but laugh, what was this place anyway? Another guy came to our table and I imagined what it must've looked like. Two Asian kids, lost in the world, found their way into some Balkan-looking tavern in Paris. The dude mumbles French in a German accent and the girl speaks English in a Korean accent. I can see why they were irritated. The second guy understood something and brought us a menu. Then he gave us the wine menu. Then he left.

The third guy was pissed, you could tell. He was more of an official, wearing black pants and a black polo shirt. He was short and bulky, a little intimidating. I tried my French one more time. He didn't respond, and for a while he didn't blink, he didn't even breathe. For just a second the world stood still. "Vin chaud?" he suddenly said, gesturing something with his hands. "Oui, c'est ca!" we said triumphantly, and the spell was broken. The three guys disappeared and life turned back to normal. 

Soon the second guy came back with two glasses and two little claret jugs full of red hot goodness. We started talking and drinking, laughing and thinking. And never stopped. The hours passed and that's how we spent our evening. A group of older men walked in and had drinks, a family of three sat at another table and ate, but the majority of customers were occupying the bar and following the horse race on tv. It was a very odd place, and one thing was for sure. We really didn't belong there.