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.