Parisians love their dogs. Their furry friends accompany them everywhere, even into
stores. At almost every café we’ve
been to, there’s invariably a little dog patiently seated next to his
owner. This one sat at the table
in front of us at Deux Magots. He
was infinitely more likeable and well-behaved then the subsequent table occupants (Cigar
Man, who must get cancer and die).
After we vacated our table at Deux Magots so I wouldn’t
reach out and smack Cigar Man with my bottle of Badoit, Jules and I found a quiet table at Café de
Flore. We passed a thoroughly enjoyable two hours talking about detours and
road trips and where journeys have led us. We noted how glad we were to be in Paris and discussed some
of the stranger quirks we’d noticed.
For instance, we remembered at Café de Flore that you’re supposed to tip
the person who maintains the bathroom at restaurants. (We felt so guilty as
both of us forgot on our separate bio break runs that we made an especial final
trip upstairs so we could tip the girl -- and also so I could steal more toilet
paper to wipe my cigar-smoke-afflicted nose. I had a tissue blow apart in my
hands during one particularly loud and violent sneeze).
The table behind Jules had been vacated for not ten minutes
when an older gentleman (in what had to be the hottest wool suit in the
universe on what was already an uncomfortably warm day) sat down with his
Bichon Frise.
“Allez,” he said to
his dog, patting his knee.
The white furball jumped up in his lap and enthusiastically
French kissed him. He was soon joined by the male equivalent of the batty old
woman with a thousand cats:
another impeccably dressed octogenarian with four dogs so small they
defined “kick dog.” All four
hopped up on the bench to join their master, snarl and preen at bit at the
Bichon, and then, drink coffee from their owner’s cup.
L’addition, s’il vous plaît et NOW! CHECK! NOW! NOW!
First Cigar Man.
Now Stupid Pet Tricks. Kill
me. Kill me now.
Cathy
When do you sleep/ I really enjoy your writing, a vivid picture is painted in my mind. Deux Magots, what does this translate to? I believe Julie likes the Bichon Frise, a perfect French lap dog. Thanks for sharing your daily journal. Now I can lite up a Cigar.
Posted by: tom polston | May 02, 2005 at 08:31 PM
Huh. That's funny. Everyone always asks me when I sleep. Sometimes even IF I sleep...but I actually do. Jules woke me up out of deep sleep two nights ago cuz I was snoring. "Deux Magots" is named after the two wooden statues of Chinese mandarins in the cafe. I dunno if Jules likes the Bichon Frise much any more considering it's the same dog the man behind us at Cafe Flore kissed repeatedly. She made an unbelievably rude comment. So un-Jules like I didn't feel comfortable writing about it even though it made me laugh hard. Light up a cigar, but not in my presence please. I am still wishing ill of Cigar Man. :-)
Posted by: Ki | May 03, 2005 at 08:52 PM
I just came back from a lovely trip to Paris and I always stay in the 6th..this trip there was this little dog who was owned by the man who ran the magazine/newspaper
stand outside of Cafe de Flore...anyone who goes you have to check this little gut out..such a sweet chein :)
Posted by: Aileen Bordman | October 16, 2007 at 10:18 PM