Writing in Cafés
05.25.2011
Most of the time, I write at home, but the other day, mulling over a journal piece I intended to write, I thought, why not try writing in a café today? Especially since the journal post included the mention of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, who used to escape the chill of their apartments by writing in Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
I would have to try out a few cafés to discover which has the best ambiance, the best conditions for writing.
It’s the hottest April and May on record in Paris, so open windows were one requirement. A good table for writing was another. And not too noisy.
After a brisk 25-minute walk, I arrived at my chosen café. Already, one advantage of writing in cafés was apparent—a good walk stimulates the mind.
What was it Friedrich Nietzsche said? “A sedentary life is the real sin against the Holy Spirit. Only those thoughts that come by walking have any value.”
The café was crowded and noisy, but perhaps it would be quieter upstairs. I asked the woman at the cash register, “Are you serving upstairs?”
“Oui, Madame,” said a blonde woman whose hair was unusually short for a French woman.
The upstairs floor was L-shaped. A woman sat at the head of the “L,” a man in a corner at the foot. Both were focused, writing and reading. I picked a table halfway between the two and arranged my notebooks, colored pencils and pen on the table before me.
Behind me there was greenery in the open window that muffled the sounds from the street. In spite of the heat, a slight breeze brushed my shoulders.
A waiter appeared shortly. He was warm and twinkly, if a bit nervous, and took my order for a Badoit and green tea from Japan.
What luck! I’d found my perfect writer’s café on the first try!
I caught up on my soul-map, the daily mandala I draw of twelve colors, a daily check-in that keeps me on track in the twelve realms of my life.
The waiter returned. He seemed nervous, and sure enough, he spilled the sparkling water. But he swiftly recovered, grabbing the bottle, apologizing, drying the table, and wheeling off to bring me a replacement. Nothing on the table had gotten wet.
By the time he returned, I’d finished my mandala, and opened my notebook, ready to begin writing.
A kite string of fluttering women were heading up the stairs. I couldn’t see them yet, but I could certainly hear them, shouting in Italian. They must be on the way to the bathroom, I thought. Such noisy revelers would find no one up here to observe them and little to observe.
But no! Like a gaggle of chattering mockingbirds, they twittered past me, one male among them, and crowded around a table two tables away. Another straggled past in a red shirt, red jeans, a voice like a fire alarm.
How far away could I move and manage to outdistance their voices? I carried my Badoit, tea and notebooks to the opposite end of the room, and slid into the farthest booth. No, still too loud. I moved to the table opposite, directly in front of the two open wings of the window, poured my tea, took a sip and lifted my pen.
A man in a gray suit came up the stairs, looked around the spacious room, and slid into the booth I’d just vacated, directly across from me. He arranged a notebook and book on the table, then stood up and closed the two leaves of the window.
“Oh non, monsieur, s'il vous plaît, il fait trop chaud pour avoir les fenêtres fermées[1].”
He nodded pleasantly and opened one of them, leaving the other closed. “Voilà!” he said.
It was still too hot at my table. I looked around the room. There were at least three other windows, but all were too close to the noisy Italians.
I finished my tea, packed up my bag, and headed downstairs. The man in the gray tailored suit leapt up and reached the stairs just ahead of me. What was he doing?
While I paid at the register, he stood beside me and chatted with the cashier.
I walked a ways to the next appealing café. This one had no upstairs floor. But look! There in the corner, out of the main flow of people and traffic were two empty tables.
Just as I settled in at one, a man signaled me from halfway across the room, accompanied by a younger woman.
He gestured, Was the table next to mine available?
Yes, I nodded. He maneuvered his way through tables and chairs and took a seat against the wall next to me. He turned to me and grinned, as if happy to have company. But where was his female companion…?
I glanced outside and saw that she was the hostess of the restaurant.
A handsome humorless waiter came to take my order: a Perrier and a fresh fruit salad.
“Are you together?” he asked the man to my left.
“Oui,” he said, and pushing his table up against mine, said to me, “Vous permettez?”
Was I going to humiliate him in front of the waiter and other diners? No.
As soon as the waiter took his order for a beer, he introduced himself.
I told him I was here to write, as soon as I’d finished “supper.”
“Oh,” he said. “You’re a writer. I’m a painter.” And he pulled out photos of his paintings for me to admire. He looked Spanish, like Javier Bardem, stocky and dark-haired, but his accent was pure Parisian.
Did I have children? he asked.
“No,” I said.
Was I married?
(If my wedding ring were any thicker it could be refashioned into a bracelet.) “Yes,” I said, “very happily married.”
“Ahhh,” he said, with heightened interest.
“Not just married,” I said. “He’s my soul mate.”
“Ah ha!” he said, with even greater relish. (Nothing like a challenge for a hunter.)
My fruit salad and sparkling water had arrived. I would talk to him while I ate, then excuse myself to write.
“And you,” I asked, “have you found your soul mate?”
“Yes,” he said. “She’s older than me. A writer. No children. We’ve been together for a year.”
And then came the key piece of information: “And she’s out of town till Monday.”
“I see,” I said. (And I did.)
“She would like us to live together but I prefer to keep my own place.”
I bet you do, I thought. Lucky woman, I thought, with such a devoted mate.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. We were now in tedious territory.
Did he ask for my number? Of course he did.
Did I give it? Just guess.
How much more interesting a conversation would be if a woman said what she was really thinking: An older writer, is she? I must be your type.
Well, yes, as a matter of fact you are.
Just think, if I hadn’t met Richard, and you had met me before your girlfriend—let’s call her Diane—I could be the one begging you to move in with me, and you could try to seduce Diane the instant I left town!
I don’t follow you.
Oh, you know, women are pretty interchangeable, don’t you think?
Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far…
Monsieur, I have an idea. Let me guess ten things about you.
Who would turn down an invitation like that?
All right, he said.
But you cannot speak while I guess. All you can do is tell me how many of my guesses were correct, after all ten. I don’t even want to know which.
All right! he said. You’re on!
1) You’re alcoholic. (The smell of addictive drinking is different from a beer or two on the breath.)
2) You have never been faithful to a woman in your life.
3) Your greatest gift is your lovemaking. You’re not even interested much in painting.
4) It’s easy for you to pick up women because you’re very handsome.
5) You feel sad about your life, but you’re not sure why.
6) You hate solitude.
7) You think psychotherapy, introspection of any kind is stupid, a waste of time.
8) There is an emptiness in you that nothing fills.
9) You have herpes (I can see it on your lip).
10) You hope that you’ll stumble upon some woman who is not only smart, but wise, to help you make sense of your baffling life.
Nine, he said. But this, he said, touching his lip, is not herpes. I cut myself shaving.
I nodded. It appeared to me that he hadn’t shaved in several days.
I ate my fruit salad, then told him politely that I needed to write.
He smiled and scribbled down his website. “Come to my art show!” he said, then waved goodbye.
I smiled, and took out my notebook, but the writing focus had flown. So I packed up my notebooks and pen, and walked home.
But I cannot tell you a few truths I sensed about him without telling you a truth about myself: the encounter pleased me! We women are divided creatures. We want to get our work done without annoying interruptions. When we’ve found our true love, wild horses can’t tempt us away. Yet, what delight to know we’re still considered fair game for handsome hunters.
The next day I stayed in and wrote for four hours straight. And then had a delicious evening with my true love.
The street art photographed in this edition of Paris Play is primarily by Tristan des Limbes, who has recently been blanketing Paris with marvelous, and occasionally grotesque, drawings.
[1] Oh no, sir, please, it’s too hot to have the windows closed.
Reader Comments (18)
Stunning, isn't it, how the world interferes (and in the process creates a terrific little piece of theater and writing, not to mention a boost to the ego)? And the photographs. Wow.
I always write better with the white noise of cafés all around me. I tune it all out, and the bustle keeps me focused. But of course, I don't have French versions of Javier Bardem trying to seduce me!
Paris is serving you both its best: dark corners, cracked windows, charmers, nerves, narcissists, art, self-love, not-exactly-love with improper strangers to consider and leave like old lettuce leaves in the market, a nest for the real thing, seducers, spills, wipes, wonders, and best of all--inspirations. You will not find disappointment for a long long time. And by then, you'll have a new book! So says the old timer fortune cookie.
bises,
margo
Kaaren:
Loved this last story and your honesty with the fellow artist.
XO Ann
Loved sitting in the cafe with you, Kaaren.
Kaaren, your honesty at the end of this story made me laugh out loud and want to give you a big hug. And boy, how familiar the whole scene is for me, only my cafes were in Cambridge, not Paris, but the experience of finding the perfect spot . . . . spot on! :)
Next time you're in Cafe de Flore, please send a silent greeting from me to the spiriit of James Baldwin, will you?
Thanks for sharing, and what perfect photos to accompany your narrative - I laughed out loud at several of them . . . keep living the good life, you two. Hugs.
Kaaren-- just phenomenal. These journal essays are as much a part of your voice as poetry and novel writing. I loved this story. Felt like I was there. And, yes, the honesty and insight with which you write deepens the descriptive detail in even richer ways. The cafe scenes were hilarious, though not so much for your writing attempts. You paint such visceral scenes and your words unfold these real-life "characters." Of course, Richard's photography is always "right on." How does he do it?? You two. You two... Connected in the most magnificent way. Happy Birthday, Kaaren! You are living your dream, the best birthday gift you could ever give yourself, that life could ever give you! And we are blessed.
Love,
Cassandra
Dear Kaaren,
This made me laugh and cringe (at your predicaments) in equal measure. (I distinctly remember, from my visit to Paris, the absolute FORCE of Italian tourists.) And it is so fascinating to me that the smooth operator was not in the least put off by your candid assessment or rebuff of him. (Alas, even a handsome painter is no match for a smart woman if he is so ego-centric and oblivious.) But, yes, a little "juice" (as my Jungian therapist says) between the sexes can be enlivening. :) Though you are lucky to have such a soul mate in that wonderful photographer and poet you went home to.
And I'm digging the art by Tristan des Limbes (clearly a fan of Dostoevsky...)!
Much love to you both...
dawna
Kaaren and Richard:
I love this piece. Kaaren, you so perfectly describe the dance between men and women. With this brief interlude you not only a offer us a delicious little narrative, but there is the insight of an essay. As a man who loves women I found the theme both exciting and profound all at once. It is not a misconduct to enjoy the pleasure of being admired, but then there are boundaries.
Richard, your photos of this wall art are fresh and inspiring - both two dimensional and three dimensional - great stuff.
Love Jon
Hi Anna,
If there were no obstacles, there'd be no stories, right? Richard thanks you for your appreciation of his photos.
I'm fascinated by those of you who can write in noisy cafes. It's almost ridiculous for me to go look for a quiet cafe (which is what I need) when I have all the quiet I need at home. But cafes are so lively, so interesting!
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Margo,
Thank you for a true blessing from one who knows most of the nooks and crannies, the shadow and light, of Paris. There's no period of time here or anywhere else where disappointment doesn't appear, but when the delight is as high as it is here, we hardly notice the obstacles. I like your fortune telling very much. Thank you, ma chere!
Love,
Kaaren
Dear Ann,
Thank you! If I'd really said what I imagined saying, it certainly would have been honest. But I would have had to know him better, and a brief meeting was enough. But it did make for an entertaining encounter.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Ahh, Joan,
We live to make you laugh. And double laughter is double delight! I remember those cafes in Cambridge, in the late '70s. When were you there? I wonder if I'll ever find the perfect spot... if a cafe has wonderful ambiance, others discover it too, and then it's a distracting place to write.
What I'd like to do is lift a cafe creme or a glass of champagne to James Baldwin, in your name. I'll do that next time I'm at Cafe de Flore.
I bet I know which photos made you laugh out loud; a couple did the same to me.... See you here one of these days, we hope.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Oh Kaaren and Richard,
Am I the first one, who has been so seduced by the prose and photos in Paris Play that I'm jumping on a plane? It's not the Bardem guy, I promise. It's the simply seeing Paris through your eyes, in your words. Your love of the place and the people is so visceral, your excitement so contagious, your inspiration so enviable, that soon, I too will be sitting with my journal in a cafe, perhaps across from you, keeping you from writing, while you absorb yet another bit of Paris that will move your pen for hours later, until it becomes yet another delicious entry along with Richard's perfectly paired images.
Meanwhile, I hope you had a very happy birthday, Kaaren! With love, Diane
Dear Nancy,
Surnames that begin with "Z" are so unusual that it's hard to believe we have two friends named Nancy whose last name begins with "Z." Which one are you? Though I think I know. One of you is a writer, and writers are more likely to comment on this journal... But I'd love to know for sure.
And thank you.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Cassandra,
What a birthday gift is this message from you! Coming from such a talented writer of memoir, I love hearing your words.
The café scenes only seemed funny to me the next day. In the midst of a quest for a quiet oasis to write on a hot, hot day, it didn’t seem so humorous. But I think Chaucer had the deepest vision of human experience: there is comedy everywhere, if seen from enough distance.
It seems to me that Richard’s photos are just a new way he’s found of writing poetry. They're visual poetry.
And you’re right, the birthday gift was in finally getting to move to Paris, and write about and photograph our lives here. It’s my idea of bliss.
You are so full of blessing, Cassandra, and you give it so generously to everyone around you. I’m happy to be your friend.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Dawna,
You got it. I cringed during the experience and laughed afterwards.
What’s fascinating is that someone else might have found those Italian tourists to be the very element needed upstairs to turn the room into a lively party. (But none of the four single reader-writers in the room thought so.)
And that handsome Javier guy might have been some other woman’s dream (or nightmare, depending on what she was looking for).
It’s good to have a dream to come home to, yes.
And you’re right, Tristan seems to get much inspiration from Dostoevsky. In fact, I’d say they’re kindred spirits.
Love, love to you,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Jon,
Ah, you who know so much about that dance, I am happy to hear this from you!
It’s difficult in the moment to be around people who don’t have a sense of others’ boundaries, but they do make for good (and sometimes humorous) stories. Speaking of which, how’s the screenplay coming along?
And the flirting that goes on among the French is quite an enlivening part of life in Paris.
Richard thanks you for your appreciation of his photos. He does have a great time taking them.
Love,
Kaaren
Dear Diane,
Yes, you are the first of our friends to come visit, inspired by Paris Play. We are honored! Other friends have visited, but already had plans to be here before reading our journal.
Let’s go sit in cafes and write and talk and eat and then wander around Paris together. What a good time we will have! I want you to come up with a Paris Play post suggestion that Richard and I can do. Or how about our doing a post on “Two Friends Sitting in Cafes Together Trying to Write,” based on our day doing so? (Maybe we should bring earplugs.)
I did have a wonderful birthday. It seems to be going on still.
Happy you’re coming to Paris in a few days.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)