breakfast in paris

8/14/2019 Breakfast in Paris

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Breakfast in Paris

By Sunny Lockwood



Cover photograph courtesy of Pendulum Photography and Deviant Art.com

Copyright 2009 by Merikay McLeodAll rights reserved

First electronic printing, December 2009.

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Checking out of room 43 at the Louisiana Hotel, a tiny establishment

squeezed in between a pharmacy and a half-block of farmers’ fruit stalls on

the Rue De Seine, I feel happy. Paris has been good – cloud-filtered

sunlight softening narrow streets of stone houses, the fragrance of tree-

ripened peaches and nectarines in the morning, sounds of flute and violin in

the afternoon, the clink of wineglasses at night.

Six days immersed in the swell of the city – swimming in the sights

and sounds and aromas, soaking in the genius of Van Gough, Rodin,

Caillebotte, and Hugo -- and now as I check out and head toward the bus

station, backpack resting easily on my shoulders, a bag of bread and

marmalade and a bottle of orange juice dangling from one hand, I decide to

give something back.

As a little merci gesture I will give my breakfast bag to some hungry

Parisian. I’ve seen them, the hollow-eyed rag people, sleeping in doorways,

rummaging through garbage cans. I’ll find one in this pink-gold morning

light and give him (or her) a good breakfast. The idea pleases me.

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I turn right on Rue de Buci. A tall man wearing dirty blue trousers, his

huge-toed feet like the naked hands of some giant chimpanzee, is standing

against a postered marble pillar. He stands so still he could be a mannequin,

eyes staring at the sidewalk, hand extended palm up, waiting like a great

human sparrow for a crumb.

I pause only momentarily. He’s not right. Too young. Too healthy

looking. Too passive. Too dependent.

I continue on past cafes with tiny round tables and cane chairs, past

the flower merchants arranging their sweet-smelling wares – roses and

mums and sunflowers – explosions of pinks and purples and greens, while

gray pigeons flutter around the edges of everything like living lace.

I cross the Rue De L’Ancienne comedee (still wet from its morning

washing) and continue past shoe stores and dress shops.

I walk all the way to St. Michele and turn left to the Seine. At the

river I turn left again – Notre Dame with its straining gargoyles behind me –

and walk past the book and art stalls, past the racks of souvenir post cards.

Surely along the river I will find my breakfast guest.

And then I see him – far ahead under the dappled shade of the elms. I

see him soles first because he is lying face down on the sidewalk, pants

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crumpled, clothes so near the color of dirty cement that he’s almost

invisible, blending with the light and shadow of the walkway.

As I head toward him, he stirs, rolls onto his side (one hand opening

and closing as if grasping a friend’s arm), tries to rise, then rests a moment

from his efforts. Rolling over onto his back, he tries again to sit up, grasping

at the air, straining, listing slightly to the left. With the great care that comes

from walking in a world that rocks and sometimes disappears right out from

under you, he places an open palm on the sidewalk next to him, an added

prop in his struggle to rise.

His hair is sparse, his face patched with purple. His eyes try to focus

when I notice the crowd of elderly women heading my way – a tour group of

maybe twenty coming down the sidewalk toward the man and me, scrubbed

and groomed with tiny pearl necklaces and wavy white hair shining bright as

tiaras in the early sun.

They come up behind him, talking excitedly together, not even

noticing the man within the litter. Hearing their footsteps, he cringes like a

child who’s been kicked often enough to recognize the sound of coming

pain. Still sitting on the sidewalk, he shrinks back out of the way of the

stampede.

They brush past in a gilded wave of swaying skirts and perfume.

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Receiving no blows, he ventures an over-the-shoulder glance. At first

his mouth hangs limp, his rheumy eyes still struggling to focus. Then he

turns fully toward the crowd, his face just above the hemline sea. As it

continues, skirt after skirt after gently swaying skirt, his cheeks flush, then

glow.

His head bobs as wave after wave of ladies pass.

Eyes, now radiant, he brings his hands together in applause.

“Ahhhh,” I can almost hear him say, “Paris in the morning!”

Merci beaucoup shines all over his face as he claps and claps.

When the last of them pass, I approach and gently set my bread and

marmalade beside him. He glances up from his sun-drenched sidewalk

throne. Twisting off the cap, I slip the still cool bottle of juice into his

unexpecting hands; his fingers close around it like an infant’s.

“Breakfast,” I say, but needn’t.

His gray stubble-beard, his dust-covered, smiling teeth tell me he’s

learned to accept whatever the gods may offer. And today they’ve offered

mu ch.

He sits in the sunlight clasping the juice bottle to his chest with both

hands, smiling and talking to himself.

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Grateful for the early morning bounty I was allowed to share, I turn

toward the metro.

# # #

Photograph courtesy of Zeynepgozen and DeviantArt.com

For more work by Sunny Lockwood, go to her web site: sunnylockwood.comFor her blog, “Onword,” go to http://bit.ly/EQbWb

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