Saturday, January 28, 2012

Breakfast run

8:15 on a Saturday. It’s the cusp of daylight. The streetlights are still on, shining pale in the dawn but not really needed. The cobblestones are soaked from an overnight rain I didn’t hear.
No one out, not even the dog-walkers. The streets are mine.
Light from the bakery window brightens the greyness of Paris in January. Christophe has been baking since 5 am (and will stay open until 8 pm, all alone). A few cheerful words as I pay for my pain au chocolat...... and head back up the steps. A man stops to catch his wind. He makes me feel younger, as I stride past him and across the square. A week in Paris has given me back some of the stamina that driving in America has leached out of me.
As I turn into my street, the streetlights go out... and it makes no difference. It’s officially morning.

For the first time since I arrived, there’s a light on in the artist studio across the street. So the old painter hasn’t died after all. A comforting thought.

Back across the courtyard and through my squeaky gate. It’s time for breakfast.


  1. Replies
    1. Thank you, Dik. And YOU know the run yourself, don't you? It was a bit "crisp" this morning though!