A Table in Paris

I sit at a chequered table on a corner of the Rue Saint Dominique, sipping un café and gazing dreamily at the Eiffel Tower rising above the roof tops of the Parisien street buildings. The sun is trying to escape grey clouds so that it can shine on me.
***
I arrived in Paris late last night, exiting the metro at Saint Michel to a view of Notre Dame glowing gold against the black of night. It reminded me of a time four years ago when I would take the six hour train to Edinbugh to see KP, leaving Waverley station to a view of the castle shining like a beacon on the hill and enlivened by the prospect of mojitos at Olorosos with my new man. Last night my anticipation was to see old French friends and while away the evening over several bottles of vin rouge and hearty chat.

My first stop was the hotel - an eccentric one star affair, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Latin quarter. I was greeted by an interior draped in leopard print velvet and random strokes of multi-coloured war paint. This conjured up images of an artist proprietor who's spent much of his life travelling through Africa and then retired to this little hotel, unleashing all of his influences on the interior in one crazed, artistic flourish.

A shower and a short taxi ride later and I was amongst friends in a lofty, Parisien apartment, kissing cheeks and clinking champagne glasses as we started an evening that would tumble into the early hours of the next day.

***

I put down my pen, sip my coffee and lean back. The sun has come out and I stretch and smile, tilting my face towards the warmth. It's so good to be here, alone, at this table in Paris.