Amongst The Rain

 

     I sway into a café, trying to shake off the rain that I had decided to face head-on instead of simply going back and getting my umbrella. As I step inside, I look around, a second of hesitation stopping me in front of the door until I remind myself where I am. Years of being led around causes me to forget how to guide myself in a city where everyone seems to perfectly understand who they are. As I sit and order my third café au lait of the day, I forgo my exhaustion and start to work. Letting my hand go through motions that I wish weren’t as foreign to me as they have become. Writing in a journal I insisted I needed and still do not feel familiar with, though that is a feeling I have determined must be common for everyone—the feeling of a brand-new object that has not yet truly become your own, has not yet built the memories and emotions that allow you to call it irreversibly yours. So, I sit there with my still-unfamiliar journal, forcing inspiration to take over. My eyes wander to the window beside me. I take in the beauty of Paris submerged in rain and experience the city in its most romantic and idealistic way. 

     The drowning city hypnotizes me until my lead snaps and I’m brought back to my muscles tense from sitting still for too long, to the static running up my limbs. And as I click the lead back into place, I stretch, trying to push the sting out of my limbs. The movement gives me space to breathe in this overwhelming city. But like clockwork, once lead hits paper, my mind wanders and I think of rainy days. Rainy days have always been forgetful for me, I have remembered every snowflake that has crossed my path, and yet I cannot remember a single hour in which a raindrop has fallen down my window.

     The waiter asks me a question in Spanish and I'm grateful for the familiarity of a language I understand. As he leaves to get my order, I attempt to stay on task, prying my eyes off the raindrop falling on the window. I look about the café. I have now sat here three times, and as I look around, I notice that I've sat in a different place each time. The memories of each seat return to me like a game of musical chairs. I've been told that memories are not something to be trusted, and though I'm inclined to believe it, on such a rainy day I find myself trying to engrave each seat within my memory so that this café alone can be the exception. In truth, Café Fab is quite odd compared to other Parisian cafés… Here, the people glide in and out like riders on a carousel; carnival lights hang on the ceiling while glass disco balls reflect colors over sprouting plastic tulips. 

     But past the swinging doors and hanging lights, there was a man. A man that seemed to refuse to reflect the colors of the café, a shadow man. Clad in a midnight blue coat that hangs off him in a way only a true Parisian could imitate, his black jeans now grey from overuse and his brown leather shoes soaked from a forgetful, rainy day. He ruffles his peppered grey hair and scrunches the caterpillar eyebrows that rest high upon his face. I continue watching as he adjusts a leather satchel he hasn’t taken off since before I arrived. But past all that, I look at his face—wrinkled with the passing of time, and yet, the lack of lines along the corners of his eyes and mouth speak of a man who has not smiled often in his life. 

     As I sift through this man's every feature, I realize that this shadow man isn't all that amazing or different. But despite this revelation, I continue to watch him over my lukewarm café au lait. He is simply a man like any other, yet I wonder what it is about him that has enraptured me. Maybe it’s the mystery behind a life that is not my own, the experiences I have never lived, things I have never seen, emotions I have yet to feel. There is no way for me to know, so I just stare and wonder about this shadow man. 

     Over time, my thoughts grow too far and like wrapping vines, they take over. I begin to think about all the lives in this café, in Paris, in Europe. All the lives that are not my own and that I will never be able to comprehend. As I start to contemplate a topic much too philosophical for four in the afternoon, I pick up my cold cup of café au lait, but this time, it’s empty. I have wandered off for much too long, but throughout all those thoughts, at least the lead has worked its way onto the page and I do not feel like I have wasted my time. How can I, when I have sat amongst the carousel doors, carnival lights, glass disco ball, and shadow man with unsmiling wrinkles? I have sat amongst Paris on a rainy, forgetful day.

 

A Night’s Warmth

 

     It’s dark out as I enter Café Fab later than usual. This night in particular seems to have brought out half of Paris, and I’m astounded by the amount of people drinking on a Wednesday night such as this. I look around at the café and let the storm of excited conversation wash over me. I had attached myself to this place from the beginning. Maybe it was because of the colorful lights, or the salmon pesto pasta, or the strong margaritas, or maybe it was because it was where I spent my first night in Paris. Regardless of the reason, I‘ve marked this café as mine, my place, the place that I would recommend over any other, the place I would go to if I were ever lost. So, as I look around and survey the café that I have now claimed, I remember a time when it was all so foreign and overwhelming. Only a few days ago, but miles away in my memories… I flushed under basic questions and hesitated over every decision. Back then, I was too nervous to remember where I had previously sat, so I shuffled in and sat at a random table. Funny how moments such as those become traditions—I never mean for them to, but as I search for comfort, I find myself enveloped in meaningless patterns such as those. 

     So, while I get used to this new seat, this new angle, this new life, I allow my thoughts to travel to the view around me. The moon has quietly waltzed its way into the sky while the breeze following after it attempts to still the waves of heat that have refused to rest as the sun descends over the horizon. The café is illuminated by gold lights that shine against the dark sky and fill the space of the empty chair in front of me. Sitting alone at a two-person table, I revel in the feeling of being alone with my thoughts; I have to admit, I like being lonely sometimes. I understand it is a thought only someone privileged with the love of others could have, but as I look upon the bustling café, I cannot stop from thinking so. Again, I fall into a memory of the past, of a time where the thought of being alone caused my body to quake and my lungs to collapse from within. I look down at my phone to check the time. Two minutes have passed, and before a third can come, the waiter arrives. 

     “Bonjour,” I say.

     “Bonsoir,” he responds, without the judgmental sarcasm that often follows that word.

     “Oh, yeah, bonsoir, could I have a café au lait?” My French is hesitant and awkward from lack of use. 

    “A café au lait, and do you want a chocolate croissant tonight?” he asks, teeth reflecting the lights hanging above us.

     “Yes, please. Merci,” I respond, a tad more comfortably. 

     I sit watching as the waiter walks away. I knew I was never going to frequent another café in Paris like this one again. The care of a waiter who was as diligent the first night I came in as the fifth, watching over me. The night before, I was craving something sweet with my writing, needing the push of cane and coffee to keep my hands moving, but unfortunately, coffee was the only thing available, and I had to use inspiration alone to keep the lead moving on the page. Three minutes pass, and like clockwork, the waiter returns, holding the sustenance I need. 

     “Merci,” I say.

     “Enjoy,” he says, putting the cane and coffee in front of me, making sure to avoid my used journal and copies of books by writers who had sat in cafés such as this long before I had come into this world.

 

An Arrogant Wind

 

     Walking down the damp, familiar cobblestone streets, I find my vision going in and out. Moving my head right, left, and back again, I attempt to fight against the wind's insistent pushing, but regardless of what direction I face, it refuses to meet me halfway and continues its attack on my hair. Lucky for me, I have yet to face a mirror, so for now, I can ignore whatever frazzled state it must be in. As I walk up the street across from Café Fab, years of city instincts tell me to wait for the cars to stop their stampede before I dare cross. So, I take this moment to let the rare morning sunlight warm my chilled face, and although the winter air continues to sweep through the tree branches and my curly strands of hair, I no longer mind the cold. I feel like I'm back in Chicago, back in the city I do not wish to stay in yet long to go back to. But then the stampede halts, the light turns green, and the wind picks up, so I make my way across the street. 

     Opening the heavy glass door to Café Fab seems to take twice the amount of work it usually does. Maybe it’s because of the wind's adamant need to fight against me and my good mood, or maybe it’s just my lack of nourishment this early in the day. But after a quick moment, I manage to pry the door open wide enough to slip inside. Stumbling in, I look around at the unusually empty café. “This is different,” I say, rightening myself in case a stray tumbleweed decides to roll in. I take a few more short steps into the café, hesitant with the lack of sound and moving bodies. Just as I begin to turn and laugh at my accidental break in, I see a waiter come through the doorway, cigarette in hand. “Bonjour,” I say with a peaceful enough smile. “Bonjour,” he drags from between dying lungs before walking away. 

     I ignore the waiter and his addiction and make my way further inside the café for a place to sit. For once, I feel as if I have to truly think about where to place myself, instead of wandering into whatever empty seat I had yet to sit in the day before. As I look over the empty café, indecision takes over, and I find the only way for me to grapple with this life-changing choice is by assessing all of my options. First, I set my eyes to the brightest corner of the café, the left-hand side of the entryway. This side is surrounded by transparent walls with coffee tables facing the street. I don’t think I had ever felt more like a fish in a fish tank than when I sat there .

     I turn and make my way up the three short steps to the raised wooden platform. The right-hand side is surrounded by transparent walls, but unlike the left side, the back wall is open, allowing me to walk through a gateway into a different Café Fab. This back area is adorned with varying shades of brown, blue, red, and pink, and the absence of bright lighting gives it an intimate feel that speaks of dinner and wine. “It’s too early for that mood,” I mumble to myself as I make my way back down the wooden steps.

     After analyzing every possible seating area except the bar behind the fish tank, I make my way to the brightest spot: the side of the café against the street. I make sure to place myself facing the door in case inspiration decides to waltz in and begin the long, tedious process of disarming my winter layers. After my fit of indecision, I sit down and the waiter makes his way over. I think he looks a bit happier now, but I assume that’s only because he was able to finish his tobacco breakfast. As I sit and watch the waiter leisurely stroll up to my table, I swear I see the sun go down a bit.

     “Bonjour,” I say again with a mild smile.

     “Bonjour,” he responds with a tone that tells me he didn’t end up finishing that cigarette.

     It’s too early, I think to myself as I watch him standing in front of me, being paid more than I currently believe he deserves.

     “Parlez-vous Espagnol?” I ask with a bright smile.

     “Oui” he responds, straightening just a tad.

     “Perfecto, ¿me das un jugo de naranja con el sándwich de huevo?” I ask in one breath.

     “Ehh puede decir despacio?” he asks, cringing at his own grammar.

     “Si. Me. Das. Un. Jugo. De. Naranja. Con. El. Sándwich. De. Huevo,” I ask with a wide grin covering my usual mild-mannered features. 

     “Oui,” he responds, before walking away at a satisfyingly fast pace.

     “Merci,” I call out behind him. 

     Once he’s disappeared behind the kitchen door, I turn to my still-new Shakespeare and Company tote to pull out my lovingly-used journal and not-as-lovingly-used lead. My journal is the color of a dust storm and has the words LE SPLEEN DE PARIS etched across the front. I would love to have some deep story about why I chose it, but the truth was that I needed a journal with lines and wanted something about Paris on it that wasn’t tacky. This journal fulfilled both requirements, and as it joined me on my adventures across Paris, I grew to love it more and more. 

     While I restlessly waited for the waiter to do his job, I flipped through the pages of my journal and grazed the hasty writing that spoke of quick inspiration, something that was currently eluding me in this empty café. “Maybe I’ll find something waltzing outside,” I say to myself. So, I shift towards the glass wall and look out at the sleepy Parisian cobblestone. Mornings in Paris are sluggish, the air carrying a reluctance to enter the real world. At first, I remember thinking they were smarter for this, getting to start their day late and sleep in, not having to force themselves to brace the world while still clinging to the lingering remnants of their dreams. But as my body began to adjust and I naturally arose with the sun, I found my thoughts changing. Especially now, as I sit here in this peaceful empty café with the sun illuminating my fish tank, I recognize that this is something no Parisian will be able to enjoy. Not without the annoyance of being awake. 

     “Mmmmh, that was quite an arrogant sentence,” I mumble to the glass pane. Maybe I am becoming Parisian. Luckily, I notice the waiter briskly make his way towards me before I have time to get too big of a head.

     “Merci beaucoup,” I say as I move my journal to make room for the food. “Bon appétit,” he says with the slightest grimace of a smile.

 

A Cold Departure

 

     One Doc in front of another, my cold leather feet walk upon the worn-out cobblestone path, damaged from years of rushing bodies and unruly weather. It’s interesting how little you notice while walking the same route every day, everything so familiar that you disregard the small details hidden amongst your mundane surroundings. “Mundane,” I chuckle out loud while crossing the street, narrowly missing a shivering biker. I remember thinking of Paris as a magical city beyond my reach, a place where every block and cracked building held something impossible to explain. And yet now it’s mundane. From the graffiti stop sign to the Monoprix door that refuses to close, it’s all so impossibly mundane. But even so, my love for this city has not yet wavered, and I have learned to love it without my rose-colored glasses. 

     “Such an odd time of day,” I say to the glass door as the sunset’s reflection hits my retinas, disorienting me. I pull on the door and enter the café, trying to regain some of my lost vision. As I blink away the stars in my eyes and look around the café preparing for its nightly rush, I think about how funny it is that I've never seen this café closed. From morning till night, I have seen Café Fab in all its forms, but never have I seen it closed. Just as I began to think this city has lost some of its magic, the thought of a café that never closes reignites a childlike wonder within me. With my eyes now settled, I focus on finding an empty spot that I have yet to sit in. Another small piece of magic I’ve unearthed after several days spent writing in this café: No matter how many different places I settle down in, a new one always seems to pop up. 

     With a new seat found, I stride across the café, up the short steps to a seat next to the clear walls and portal doorway. While making my way to my newly-discovered seat I gaze around to see if I can spot my favorite waiter. By the time I reach my streetside table, I find my waiter across the café and notice his rapid hands and weary smile. “I can wait,” I say, sitting down and beginning my natural routine. My phone is placed on my right, my dust storm journal on my left, my copy of Giovanni’s Room beneath it, my lead in front, and my headphones on top of my phone. Everything is in place, and I consider taking off my coat, but remember the biting cold that the clear walls did little to stop, and decide against it. Just as I finish setting up and putting my bag on the floor, my favorite waiter appears in front of me, like perfectly rehearsed choreography.

     “Bonjour, madame,” he says, his smile less pinched.

     “Bonsoir,” I say, my French accent mixing comfortably with my Latin tongue. It had taken almost my entire time in Paris, but I had finally remembered how words transformed with the falling sun in this city.

     “Puis-je avoir un café au lait?” I ask without hesitation.

     “Bien sûr,” he responds with what I hoped was a proud smile.

     “Voudriez-vous un pain au chocolat as well?” he asks knowingly. 

     “Oui, merci,” I respond.

     Just as quickly as he appeared, my waiter leaves to work through what I presume are his many tasks. The sun almost completely having gone down the horizon, I watch as the café lights flicker on and the Parisians awaken in turn. I go to my journal and flip to a bright, blank page with faint, empty lines awaiting my inspired mind, but before the lead is able to scrape paper, something catches my eyes. The dark back of the café’s inner walls—they aren’t all brick. I have come to this café more times than I have even traveled to Paris and yet I did not know the walls weren’t all brick. Instead, I see one brick column against the main wall with silver-patterned wallpaper on the right side and dyed-blue planks on the left side. On the right-side wall is one more brick column and the rest is covered in rectangular mirrors all linked together. I swore I knew this café better than my own bedroom and yet I had missed this. I hadn’t seen all of the café. I missed something. I almost left and didn’t notice this. How can I leave? How can I leave this place I had so confidently claimed as mine? How can I abandon it? I can’t abandon it. I – I can’t leave. Not like this—not on a random Friday morning in January!

     “Madam. Ton café et pain au chocolat,” my favorite waiter says.

     “Oh, um, merci,” I mumble, quickly shifting my books to make space on my coffee mug table. “Enjoy,” he replies with a comforting smile that, unfortunately, only weakly brightens my mood.

     As he steps away, I inhale deeply, shuddering. My hands have gone cold, and I can feel my body making up for the air I had briefly denied it. I need to breathe. This isn’t the time to let my lungs give out; I won't let them. Not after they’ve worked so hard to keep me alive among the smoke of Paris. “Breaaaaathe,” I say slowly, letting my words follow my trembling body. Once I’m sure I’m not going to pass out in my seat, I pick up my café au lait and slowly bring the shaking mug to my lips. I take a sip, hoping its familiar warmth might drown the lump building in my throat. It doesn't go away. I take a bigger sip and let the caffeine rest on my tongue, warming my shivering body.

     I thought… I mean, I knew this day was coming. I knew that this wasn’t permanent and that eventually I would have to fly back to reality, and yet now that I'm here, I feel as if I've been hit with a blow I haven’t had time to defend against. And so, I sit at my newly discovered place, my stomach turning with melancholy and the strong dose of caffeine I had attempted to conceal it with. “I need to write. I need to move my hands,” I say, the shakiness resigning.

     I grab my lead and open up to a blank page. Perhaps none of what I write makes any sense, but I don’t care. I just need to move and do something familiar. Slowly, my hand keeps up a consistent rhythm and I feel myself relax and come back down from the ledge to which I had disappeared before. Regaining my thoughts, I look around for something to provide me a sliver of peace about all this, about leaving. I scan the café and its familiar tables and notice something my air-deprived body had overlooked. On my left, against the clear walls looking over the street, are three girls sitting at a rectangular table huddled over a menu. It was the first table I had ever sat at in Café Fab. Just as they were, I once sat there with hopeful strangers, all of us unprepared for the adventure to come. I had sat next to a girl whose eyes only spoke of colors and shapes. And across from us had sat a girl whose unexpected rainbow eyes and confidence pulled us in. “I hope they don’t think I’m weird for staring,” I mumble. But as I watch the girls who sit at an extraordinarily ordinary table, I feel the lump in my throat get smaller. I let the memories of that uncertain night, margaritas, and a life-changing pasta soothe me.

     “I wonder if there’s anything else,” I say, looking around the café.

     After only a moment, my eyes pass over an empty table in the back corner near the fish tank. That was the first table I had sat alone at in Café Fab. I remember how tall I thought it was and the way I hesitated so much before sitting down, unsure if I was allowed to choose my own seat. Looking at it now, I notice how much shorter it really is; it’s probably only tall enough to reach my waist, really, but then again, with my height, I'm probably not the best unit of measure. What it does still have is the plastic sprouting tulips that decorate each table.

     “I really thought those were real at first,” I say, chuckling at my past self. 

     I feel the lump getting even smaller, and so, I keep looking. And just as I begin to turn and look around past the portal door to the other side of the café, I see him. He’s here. The shadow man. And though I know time has definitely passed and my coffee is most likely lukewarm at best, I continue to look at him. Nothing has changed about him: he has the same unsmiling wrinkles, dark clothes, and worn satchel he seems to never take off. It’s all the same, even where he sits and the beer he drinks—it's all the same. The same simple shadow man that almost brought me to tears. Days, weeks of coming to the same café at all hours of the day, and never had I seen the shadow man sitting there the way I did on that first day. Maybe it’s his unchanging stance, or the memory of how everything started, but suddenly, I'm overcome with peace.

     Seeing the unchanging shadow man illuminates something I haven’t paid thought to before. How I’ve changed. No… grown. I have grown so much since my first day in Paris, and regardless of all the good and the bad I have experienced while here, I refuse to abandon the me that had worked so hard to get me this far. I was still the same young woman who came to this magical city those few weeks ago. But now, I have lived in this café, I have claimed it, I have sat in every corner and looked over it like an owl on its perch. In the end, it is still quite odd compared to other Parisian cafés.

     As my lead lifts from the page and my moving hand stills, I begin to put my routine away and rise from my unfamiliar seat. I pass the shadow man and make my way to the waiter standing by the cash register. As he runs my card to pay for my final coffee and chocolate croissant, my nose picks up faint traces of the scent of tobacco, which is likely woven into the waiter’s shirt.

     He hands me my card, to which I reply, “Merci beaucoup.”

     “À bientôt.” He nods to me.

     I pocket my card and walk towards the familiar door. I swing it open, finding that it no longer feels heavy, and I step out of Café Fab.