Life’s spectacles: Sunday on rue Cler, Paris – pedestrian market street extraordinaire

Coffee and croissant at a terrace table at Tribeca on Sunday mornings, what a yummy and privileged position for watching the Parisian parade, the postures, the clothes, the boots, the ages and energy. Overhearing conversations in French, English, Italian, American, Spanish, the fruit vendors crooning their musical sales pitch, children squealing at the front table, customers shouting for the waitress, the knock of shopping trolley wheels against the cobblestones. So much to absorb, from the clichéd to the crude, the tots and tourists, shoppers and strollers, spotting the occasional jogger and VIP, with street music and Paris chiens oblige.

This morning was lovely, brisk and not sunny enough to over-crowd the terrace, had a clear view of the street after saying goodbye to Damen and Pat, heading home for Christmas. I settled in with a second crème and became an audience of one, craning my neck as I watch a homeless man join the hapless music vendor, singing “La vie en rose”.

Just as a shiny BMW rumbles slowly through the crowd, steered by an elderly gent with a beret and glasses peering over the wheel, his English spaniel leaning on his shoulder as navigator.

And the pretty, tough newspaper vendor across the way leaves the stand to the charge of the fleabitten vendor of toys, tapping the door code of the building behind her, going in for change? The young bookstore owner en face is busily re-arranging books in the shelves outside, and my attention is caught by a young father and his giggling little girl sneaking up on mom who’s walking slowly ahead, waiting to be surprised.

Meanwhile the table on my right has changed couples three times this morning, each pair sitting down, ordering their coffee and settling down to read the morning papers. Here comes a single woman to take the table on my left, and her longhaired pup, with bangs perfectly combed, politely pokes his head between us to say hi. His attention is diverted when the waitress sets down coffee and tartines; an eager bark, and, yes, they are sharing breakfast. The couple on the right snarl disapproval, but the canine and his mistress ignore them.

I look up to see that the music vendor and his crank organ have been liberated of the unwanted accompianist and are now churning out Montand’s “A Paris”. Yes, it’s a perfectly content Sunday on rue Cler, à Paris.