I fell in love with the idea of the lost generation’s Paris cafe
- somewhere you could sit forever, creating. Maybe I read
A Moveable Feast
one too many times or just spent a very vulnerable and formative week in
the “City of Love” before I'd grown into the realities of adulthood, but
I’ve dreamt of a version of life in which I float down to a cafe on a
quiet but not silent street. I sit outside but back from the road in a
wicker chair at a round red table. I have a book, a notebook and pen
sitting with me but they are merely there not the objective.
Many years later I live in a city that is far physically and culturally
for the city that spawned my love of cafes but the attachment to the
spaces has certainly stuck. And so now I wander through the city crerating
a collection of my favorite places to sit for hours.