Un Cafe

My downstairs neighbors are a middle eastern schwarma shop. Marcel, the manager helped me my first day when I found I didn't have the porte code to enter the stairway to my friend, Charles Henri's apartment. I had a huge Swiss Army suitcase, a duffle, a knapsack and a dog. Marcel came to my rescue by finding the Guardian (manager) of the huge and very Victor Hugoesque 18th century apartment complex. The code was procured, I punched it in a voila -- cube sweet cube -- the typical Paris apartment -- mignon, but what an address. As the guy said "Location, location, location." Heart of the 2nd, 10 minutes from everywhere I love -- Le Marais, L' Opera, rue Algiers...perfect.

So today the rain in pouring and Dexter is shoved in the shopping cart to keep his curly locks fluffy and dry. Marcel sees us coming in through the back -- their shop back lets onto the landing where I enter the porte. And today, Marcel made me un cafe -- and I don't drink coffee as a rule -- but it was lovely. I sat in this little shop and watched the swarthy neighborhood roughs come in for gyros, schwarma, un cafe and gossip.

Now I'm ready for the rest of the day. Merci Marcel