conversation and observation at au chai de l’abbaye

The clink clank clink is the cacophony common in a cluttered café. It’s an orchestra of silverware and plates that contribute to the movement of the place. As my glass empties, my observation skills seem to wane, or perhaps they become sharpened and sensitive. In any case, my hearing seems more attuned with the atmosphere and if I close my eyes for a moment, I can concentrate and detect what actions accompany these sounds. A spoon hits the edge of a glass, a fork scrapes at meager crumbs on a plate, the strike of a match lights a cigarette, lips sip on espresso, and finally the contented sigh from a patron.

I open my eyes and the first thing I see is the table that holds my pen and paper. It is an ivory marble with gray veins framed by a dusty tan wood. I sit on a chair with a scarlet cushion and brass buttons. I adjust my feet under the table and look up. The light in the café is bright in some places and dim in others. A single florescent bulb hits the shiny, hairless head of the waiter. He has his eye on me. It’s easy to tell I’m American, though I’ve been “Ni Hao”-ed at everyday since I’ve gotten here. I had attempted to ask him what he recommended when I first placed my order. One of my companions told me how to say, “what do you recommend?” in French and I repeated the phrase in my head over and over, confident that he would point out a few choice reds on the wine list upon hearing my question. However when the time came to ask, I noticeably shrunk before him and stuttered the words unintelligibly. He shook his head back and forth and looked between my companions and myself, slightly outraged. When one of my friends clarified my question the waiter looked surprised and pointed to himself wide-eyed, saying “Moi?” Finally he pointed to practically every wine on the list and a light sheen of perspiration broke out on my forehead as I tried to keep up with his quick pointing fingers and rapid French tongue. I blindingly chose one, feeling slightly as if I had just gone through an interrogation. Upon my choosing, he snatched the menu from my hand and I looked up at his face to see that he looked somewhat satisfied. Perhaps he was just as relieved as I was that the line of inquiry was over.

A group of two British men and two British women are seated to the left of me. I think they’re on holiday. Their conversation topics consist of cheese and wine and I recall Chris telling us of the great width and appetite of Balzac. He said they don’t talk about these things in Britain, but I suppose since they’re in France, this type of conversation is relatively safe. A few Frenchmen sit behind me on my right. I hear a couple of deep, distinct voices, so perhaps there are only two of them. The guttural yet fluid sound is soothing like the warmth of the red wine flowing down my throat and settling in my stomach. It makes me sleepy, but pleasantly so (at the end of a long day I always find myself dozing off on the metro ride home). I hear a couple of women now behind me as well. They were here when the café was rather empty, though they were silent. I think it’s the rising noise level of the café and the liquor and espresso in their systems that accumulate to their own volume. They’re Japanese from the sound of it. Conversation never ceases here, though I find I’m a bit fearful in lending my own voice to the noise. For now, I sit back in my seat and take what comfort I can of the café, waiting for the rain to stop and waiting to be inspired.