Every morning, when I am in Paris, I go downstairs to the café for breakfast, always sitting at the bar with the same regulars who, strangely, always occupy the same places. If when they arrive someone is already there, the owner just sets down their usual order at the accustomed place at the counter and they squeeze between the bodies to get to it.
The hairdresser always sits at the left end of the counter. He bought the hairdressing salon where he used to work (his former employer still lives in the same building in the flat above the salon). He could be mistaken for a college student, generally dressed in blue jeans and a Tshirt and above all speaks in a certain way….. It is not easy to differenciate between what is slang and what is invented. Each time he opens his mouth I wonder what he’ll come out with, and when he has quite finished I start thinking that I must have become a true Parisienne because I managed to understand every word. He likes to talk soccer with the chemist who came to France from Martinique and sits next to him.They compare notes about soccer and political scandals, particularly if these have made the front page of the Parisien (which the establishment kindly makes available for free to its customers).
Beside the chemist sits a young man who dabbles in the stock market. He likes to speak with them, whatever the subject, and always has a coffee, two croissants and an orange juice, then ten minutes later – surely carried away by enthusiasm- has another coffee and a pain au chocolat. He certainly doesn’t seem obsessed by health issues. Later on the three Serbian ladies who work in the jewelry store across the street come in, speaking their own language. I believe they must be happy being able to speak their mother tongue. They always seem glad to meet together. Then the owner of the algerian restaurant often comes by to have his expresso with a frown. His restaurant is famous and every evening he stands outside, full of energy, puting on a show for the tourists. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t feel like talking in the morning. Then there’s me and later on the mason. Gaston the café owner and he discovered Paris when they were seventeen. Gaston in 1961 when he arrived from his native Auvergne. He started working in another café near la place de la Bastille. Then his former boss helped him to open his own establishment. He is always happy because, he says, « it’s in my bones ». He can talk with anyone on any subject but also knows how to keep silent. He is a born diplomat. The mason arrived in 1970. They both left their familial farms because it seemed « obvious » that there would not be enough work for them there as they both came from large families. They didn’t know a thing when they arrived to Paris where they were met and welcomed by their clan, as they like to call it themselves, smiling. The bistrotiers from Auvergne and the masons from Corréze.
They talk of a Paris that no longer exists, of buses with platforms, of an epoque when all you needed to do was arrive from your hometown to be welcomed and found work by someone from your region. They talk of the present situation and what they hope to leave for their children. And all this costs me just 3 euro 30 …
