A drizzly October afternoon in Paris. My husband and I have arrived on the train from Avignon and then dragged our luggage along wet streets and crowded sidewalks from the Gare du Nord station to our hotel in the Latin Quarter. It was farther than we thought, and we’re exhausted, but we’re too early to get into our room.
We leave our bags with the concierge and head out in search of refreshment. This being Paris, we don’t have to go far. Directly across the street is a tiny patisserie and espresso shop. We order cremas and a croissant to share and gratefully settle at one of the small tables near the window.
The place is a miniature gallery of bakery art. There are no paintings or photographs, only small individual shelves placed at staggered heights on the walls. Each shelf bears a single cake. Every cake is embellished with painterly skill, with craft befitting a fine jeweler.
Other than that, no piped-in music, nothing to distract from our creamy coffees and the croissant that shatters into exquisite, buttery crumbs the moment we touch it.
“Why didn’t we get two?” I ask my husband, who only smiles. I already know the answer: because we’re American. We’re not allowed an entire croissant each between meals.
There are few people in the patisserie at this hour, and now that it’s raining in earnest, sidewalk traffic has slowed, and along with it the opportunities for people-watching through the window.
My glance strays to a woman sitting at another table, and instantly I am fascinated. I nurse my coffee, only half-listening to my husband as he reads suggestions from his Paris guidebook. As casually as I can, I watch the woman.
She is in her late forties or early fifties, fashionable without looking like she tried, self-possessed in that way French women seem born with. She is alone, and she is eating cake.
And that’s all she’s doing. Eating a piece of cake. Slowly, with quiet relish. Sips of coffee in between. Occasionally she glances out the window.
What strikes me is what she’s not doing.
She is not scrolling through her phone. She is not reading a book. She’s not checking her calendar or her watch. She is not, evidently, waiting for anyone. She’s certainly not tracking her cake or its calories in a food journal.
Maybe she does this every day, I muse, who knows? I furtively observe as she finishes her cake with a small sigh of satisfaction.
I expect her to collect her coat and purse and leave, but she doesn’t. She takes her last sip of coffee. And then she sits and looks out the window.
That’s all.
She sits. With no one’s permission, she takes her time, savoring the trailing delights of her cake and coffee, watching the umbrellas bob past the window.
She looks quietly, utterly contented.
In our American way, my husband and I have successfully killed the time until we can access our hotel room and get ready for the next whatever-it-is we have planned. We leave.
The woman is still sitting, still calmly gazing out the window.
In the following days, we wander through the City of Lights and experience many marvelous sights, sounds, and tastes.
But my most indelible memory of that trip is that woman, sitting in a neighborhood pastry shop, having cake. Because it’s pleasurable, and for no other reason.
There doesn’t, she has taught me, need to be another reason.
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