The Marigny is the cafe on the corner. It is a brasserie and a tabac. It could be most anywhere in Paris or France for that matter.
This morning I sit at the Marigny with my husband enjoying a cafe in this incredible April sun that has almost lasted a month without a drop of rain. There are two guys taking down the glass walls of the terasse because it is officially summer. One guy, the white one, is wirery, small, all nerves. The other guy is a big happy black dude; they look like chess mates on the board.
They are bumbling around, not quite sure how to remove the thick glass panels and keep bumping into the lady drinking Bloody Mary's. It must be 8 AM. She's smoking, we're all smoking.
The traffic light turns red and some guy stops on his scooter, he's yelling in some incomprehensible language, he's real pissed. We think he's got turret then realize he has a head set for a cell phone.
The chessmates bump into the drunk lady that pours tabasco into her drink and put the chairs on top of the table, feet first. The patron comes out, he doesn't like that. Cars start honking because the light turned green and the guy on the scooter is gesticulating widly, his feet glued to the tarmac. He drives off, more cars honk at something else.
A lady walks by crying and stomping her feet, she too is having some phone conversation. I think the Parisians have gotten too much sun.
Time to get the studio and start painting.