Café Couleur

Heading down to rue Cler for Sunday morning post-ACP, the bakery at the end of rue Jean Nicot is covered in faux log-cabin wood as workers are constructing the annual holiday deco, which if I remember correctly will include a waving Santa from an upstairs window. Walking down St. Dominique, I passed the shiny new Starbucks, just open, and of course there's a buzz of hungry clients and steamy chatter. Sigh. Yes, I will eventually stop in for a coffee milkshake or a fancy flavoured latte, but it's a jolt to know that my neighborhood has been chosen by a mega-chain. It's all the fault of Rick Steves.

Next disconnect comes from a couple pushing their baby toward me down the sidewalk – it’s a colleague from the office! The brain scrambled, sirens blaring, to mesh the Alison personas, fumbled a bit then – clunk, personalities syncronised, introductions, small talk, move on quickly. Turning down rue Cler, passed a gorgeous black sofa upended on the sidewalk, while a meter a way a couple of homeless guys are begging seated long-legged on the sidewalk. I suppose if they sat on the couch it wouldn’t look serious?

Approaching the market, I could hear a violin and classical music, turns out two young women are playing, lovely, while I made my way to Tribeca for a ringside seat and, gasp, the sun pierced through the clouds (direct quote from the waitress). Un grand crème and a warm croissant finally clears the overdose of wine from yesterday’s Salon des Vignerons Indépendents (note: find out how Sabrina did, we kept up with each other at each tasting booth!).

Here comes an elegant French woman with a stylish bright purple hat and scarf set – the red lipstick and heels help pull it off. And there goes a woman in a pomeranian hair style with matching dog. Meanwhile, a little boy in a yellow helmet is struggling with his bike in front of the grocery store, as a dad pushes a toddler by in in one of those push-tricycles, but wheelie style, her front wheel in the air, wonder what she thinks floating off the ground like that. My downstairs neighbour trundles by, no chance to nod a hello, as a waitress walks out looking like she spent the night in an SM dungeon, all breasts and naked arms, outlined in black leather and silver chains, leopard belt on her hips. Friendly enough.

And omigosh, here’s another purple scarf, on a man this time. The sun has faded, I’ve plotted out my mom’s agenda for her visit at Christmas, just about finished my orange pressé, when here comes the purple coiffed lady again, this time with a white fluff dog she is setting on the ground. Looks like it’s time to get home and dig out my own purple scarf.