The register constantly beeps.
Is it a cafe? Is it a convenience store? Is it a betting parlor? What is it?
Paris seems so elegant and sophisticated. Genteel and refined. Of course, they would have a store I don’t understand.
Cigarettes. Beep.
Lottery tickets. Beep.
Coffee. Beep.
One older retired guy comes into buy scratch-off tickets, scurries outside to smoke and scratch them, and then comes back in. Rinse, cycle, repeat. Beep.
This isn’t a tourist cafe. The customers here are businessmen wearing scarfs on their way into the office, IT guys pulling up on their scooters, or students getting something before class begins. Most though, wear the color-coded jumpsuits of their service or trade. Yellows and blues predominantly with a smattering of red or black. Construction workers, carpenters, plumbers, and sanitation guys. Hardhats tucked into the crook of their elbows.
Some hard-looking men stand at the counter and drink their coffee. Others smoke outside and chatter with friends about their bosses, jobs, wives, girlfriends, or perhaps just about life, in a language that is not French. Maybe it’s Spanish or Italian or maybe not. It’s hard to tell.
An occasional crazy self-talker wanders in for smokes. He loudly speaks to no one. He pays for his cigarettes, and they send him on his way, muttering to himself. Beep.
The Proprietor knows them all. He is a middle-aged man of vaguely Vietnamese descent. Thin and wiry, he shakes all of their hands or they call to him as they walk by.
“Bonjour,” they say.
‘Bonjour,” he replies.
Occasionally, he comes outside to smoke, sip an espresso, and glance around until his wife calls him back into the store. She clearly runs the place.
Older guy is back for more scratch-offs. Beep.
Perhaps Paris isn’t so different after all.
Older guy
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