People/ Travel

Au parloir du Colombier, Paris, 12/06/2024.

I wish I could fly back to the 1950's and sit with a middle-aged man around 63 years old at a table, speak weak French, and talk about politics; or something else I don't know shit about that has made it to the newspapers. And sometimes I stand right in the middle of it all. 

I walk around Paris, alone, on my 23rd birthday mid June. I have my camera in my bag to accompany me on this beautiful afternoon. Temperature is around 22 degrees and the shade of the sun surrounds me. I begin to think in black and white, as usual. As I see the tables of a café outside with the typical Parisian checked tablecloths, I walk in, as I have recently learnt that we should always follow our intuition. There is something about this place that interests me. When I first look around it is the antique interior accompanied by four people. A quite chubby man sitting, very friendly and French. A little man who is so kind to pour my drink in exchange for a two euro coin, and a lady that is about to leave. Hair dyed blonde but probably grey from nature. The fourth person is this man. He turns to me and every wrinkle in his face stands still and a couple of grey hairs begin to speak to me. A slight moment, before turning his face right back to the newspaper filled with words written about Emmanuel Macron after the election of June 9th.
He grins friendly. He gets his red pen and begins to underline some phrases. 

The fifth person is myself. A lost traveler who has no idea where he is but here and now in this bar looking for answers in assorted cutlery.
In a few lines I describe myself, in either French or Spanish as my head gets totally mixed up after speaking Spanish for months. I ask the rather chubby man if he likes Paris and I glimpse my eyes on the man with the newspaper. Click. I decide to sit outside at the red-white checked tablecloth to look at passengers and try to guess their names. One is Colette, the other is Fernand. All going somewhere.