There was a man with a shop type thing across the street. Paper, I think he sold. Or envelopes. Or both. This shop was the most catastrophic mess you ever saw, like Hiroshima had decided to go 2.0 but limit itself to the parameters that were his business. He was fat and smoked cigars and wore blue overalls and used to make me laugh.
I miss Paris.
I left for the UK when I was seven, but the smells linger. Why smells, I don’t know. Mostly the metro, cafes thick with cigarette smoke (gone are those days, though) and the boulangerie. And memories of being very little and standing on tip-toes to see the macaron counter because the excitement was unbearable. And then the OH DEAR GOD realisation years later upon visiting the same establishment and seeing there were tables… and people and an entire cafe behind the counter. And there I was, having spent well over a decade assuming that place was solely-constituted of counter and lady behind counter.
Jacques Dutronc was before my time. And yet in so many ways, so very not.