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Café Saint-Régis

The Paris Journal, Nichole Robertson, Evan Robertson Back at Café Saint-Régis, the eight chairs and four tables are filling up now. Customers settle in as the wait staff picks up the tempo. The two waiters rush back and forth, in and out of the doors, greeting each guest and passing out menus. Just above the flurry of activity, an apartment window over the café opens and a lanky man leans on the windowsill to smoke a cigarette. He looks down, nods to one of the waiters, then idly stares at the action unfolding at the cafés. He barely smokes. The cigarette is only a timer, and the street is his therapy. From up there, he can see it all - the cafés, the patrons, the pigeons, the food and menus and drinks - for what it is: a ritual. Routines wear you down and dull your senses. But rituals connect. You to yourself, you to everyone else. No one here has grabbed a croissant and coffee to eat on the run. They sit. They linger. And whether they know it or not, they’re a part of something bigger and wonderful. It’s simple, human and holy. A table opens up and I take my seat. I’ll order a coffee and drink it to wake up. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to be here. I’m here to be part of it. To watch the ritual unfold. To take part in doing nothing. And maybe that Crazy Pauline will show. Now that would be something. An excerpt from Chapter 3, The Paris Journal 

1 comment

Jul 20, 2014 • Posted by Damon Young

What a fascinating blog that I’ve stumbled upon. So nice to see a Columbia native flourishing far outside the borders of south central PA. Excellent writing and photography! Cheers!

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