I was feeling nervous. Kept rubbing the side of my book. I clamped it tight in my palms and I walked in.
I looked around, trying to hide the fact that I don't actually belong. One of the three cubicles by the window seemed free. I decided to make it the objective of my short march and made my way to it.
I cannot say whether I imagined it or this was actual fact, but we are in France so neither would surprise me (given the country's talent at making both imaginary and factual problems so much more real). It seemed like everyone was staring at me. Brown boy in a French Cafe.
I sat down in the most confident way possible and put the book on the table. At least I have one aspect of my persona right, thought I as I looked at the book, briefly. A Thousand Plateaus by Deleuze would have been my first pick. Since that would have been too cliched, I picked a historical work by M. T. Rankler titled 'Histories of the Western Hemispheres'; a vague but critically popular book. Naturally, I chose the French verion of this book, and that is it's translation. Highly recommended.
I digress. Back in the Cafe I am feeling relieved at the layer of thick smoke that hung in the air. This was 2004 so naturally I am in the natural den of a nicotine obsessed nation. The air smells like fresh, natural air should: full of tar, chemicals and, well, smoke. I took out a cigarette and lit it. I inhaled and exhaled the respite a cigarette brings in a hostile world.
"Bonjour, what can I get for you?"
A mildly irritated, very attractive, waitress asked me (in French of course).
I looked to my left, where an old man was sipping on a glass of wine that seemed to be saying strange things to him.
"Monsieur, is that any good?"
I sheepishly asked him.
He looked at me, also mildly irritated (a popular sentiment here, it would seem). He merely grunted.
"I'd like the same wine to keep me company please"
I said with a smile that, in retrospect, I think was altogether too wide.
The waitress frowned and walked away.
I suppose I found that mildly irritating.
