Montmartre, Paris, Sunday morning.
A wander through the streets of Montmartre, and views from a coffee shop.
People have brought their homes out on to the streets, turned their unwanted possessions over to those who might see something in them; I walk between table after table of clothes, bric-a-brac, furniture, utensils, all of it lining two closed-off streets in Montmartre, one mild Sunday morning in late September. I stumble upon all of this by accident, following my sense of interest directly to this treasure I could have so easily missed; the Dérive, once again, bearing fruit.
Endless picking, poking, coveting. The tables seem to extend on forever before me, stretching away down the street before bending round a corner and out of sight. I care not where they end; as soon as I arrive on the scene I am hopelessly lost, instantly captivated by the luck of finding this picturesque scene, any sense of time that I previously fostered disappearing as soon as I set my eyes on it. I am perfectly embedded in everything that it is, forgetting the rest of Paris and any other direction or want I might’ve possessed. For nearly an hour I amble to and fro, speaking to the owners of the stalls in shy French snippets, smiling and weaving off to the next stall, enjoying the soft bubbling and animation of the natural fluency that surrounds me. Their soft exclamations and purr-like lingering over final syllables is like silk to my ears, and after months of Portuguese heat, the gentlest touches of autumn cool are as equally well-received.
I round the corner and wander further into the slow Sunday crowds. I see people pouring thermos-fulls of hot black coffee into small plastic cups, sipping on them and smiling as they talk to their customers. Between these streets drawn at oblique angles to the growing sun, the buildings I amble through offer shade, enhancing their feeling of seclusion. Having emerged from my bed directly into this small foreign maze, these near-silent Sunday grids of passage are filled with a hovering sense of potential that’s left to rest until tomorrow, all usual business and hurry eagerly and thoroughly forgotten in place of total, final relaxation before the week begins again. The morning extends out slowly around me, unhurried, the immediacy of sunlight not yet finding its way over the roofs of the buildings, the day, too, also suspended in a sublime place of stillness. I feel the vibrations of no noise other than that which is around me when walking between the five or six stories of windows; no doubt their inhabitants are mostly here, mingling in their just-recovered jumpers, faded shoes and small peaked caps. Small change jingles in pockets, and china plates clink under inspection.
As I progress down the street, the stalls slowly change to the colourful, more solidly built structures of a food market. Tentative sunlight creeps over a shorter building to my right and falls over their wares, vividly accentuating all colours, form; large, fresh cuts of chalk-white fish lay on dazzling beds of ice, with sprigs of evergreen parsley tucked beneath them. A huge arrangement of wild mushrooms tumbles over layers of wooden crates in gorgeous autumnal colours, tawny browns and creams and near-oranges, hinting, like the small bite in the air, of the season to come. The smell is immediate and fresh; the saline tang of fish is mixed with a subtle undercurrent of produce, and swept away with each soft gust of breeze. The air is clean, light, and refreshing. Weighty bunches of grapes lay with vines and leaves around them, presented with full splendour and care, and low, welcoming sunlight glances off of the tiny twinkling droplets of water that adhere to their tight, shining skins. I purchase a tangerine from a small mound of brilliant orange fruits, picking one wrapped delightfully printed wax-paper, and place it in my jacket pocket for safe-keeping.
At the end of the street I round the corner to full sun, and am thrust again into another apogee; a café sitting on the end of the street suddenly begs me to enter, the golden sun pouring through its open doors, windows, and over array of sparsely-populated seats. It invites me, like a great warm pool, to dip my toes. I head inside, order café and pain au chocolat, which are arranged in a golden display rack, and take stock. The lighting and ambience inside is all golden; warm, secluded, luxurious in its seclusion, sure of its place in Paris, in the world. One or two people sit, reading papers, talking to the staff, friends, or simply with faces fixed in distant gazes, ruminating on unknowable aspects of their lives. The waiter gestures in the direction of any number of seats, and I offer my thanks. Outside I bask in the deliciously balanced strength of the morning sun, detuned slightly from summer’s oppression, back to a place of comfort and accessibility.
I feel a true and deep sense of isolation, away from so many things — nobody, not even I, knows where I am — and I fully realise it here, in this moment. Perhaps it is the location that has brought it on, the experience just passed. Behind me, I hear the whirring noise of the grinder, followed by a series of clunks as the barista attends to the machine. Then a small period of silence, whilst he waits. I cannot see him, but know the routine, that small window of lucidity when, thankfully, it is quiet and there’s nothing to do apart from wait for the coffee to come dripping out. There is nothing especially noteworthy about this place, but perhaps that’s why it is perfect; my sudden stopping here is a surprise even to myself. The waiter appears with my order, and completes the scene. I look around, finding that same wistful, engaged stare that others here also possess, and relax.
I sip on my hot, sweet espresso that has been delivered with small spoon, saucer, sugar and wrapped caramelised cookie. It’s this small attention to detail that I love; in Paris you get the full package, every time. The coffee is sweet, strong, and immediate; like the café it has no pretension, and I enjoy it for exactly what it is. I look back down the street, and see market shimmering in the growing light, and I retain the feeling of pleasant bustle having walked through only moments before. Nearby, people stand idly around, with absolutely nothing to do; it is Sunday morning, and they are out, meandering, just as I. They stand, leaning on posts and railings, exhaling great plumes of smoke, holding their small cups of coffee gently in their fingertips, taking small mouthfuls, savouring the taste in the cool morning air, then balance their cups on railings or tables between bouts of rhythmic gesture, and pass the time. Their presence softens the edges of the café, extending it out into the street, creating an intensely casual air in which to reside. I feel the coffee working through me, its heat and explosion of flavour awakening me from within as the sun pours down over my body. The road next to me hums with its own rhythms, the energy of momentum and noise heightening my feelings of seclusion and belonging precisely because I ignore them, allowing everything around me to flow and fuse into a sumptuous picture that I watch, as if from a distance, safe for a while, in the golden warmth of the golden café.