I Miss Having A Cigarette in Paris
It’s pretty simple. And I don’t even smoke. Regularly at least. Occasionally after a few beverages and someone offers me a cigarette I will indulge. But a long standing belief amongst my friends is that cigarettes in Europe don’t count. It’s science.
At the end of 2019, I went to Paris and London on a solo trip. I was supposed to go with a friend but they bailed last minute. For a girl. It didn’t work out. So I found myself with a flight to Paris that I didn’t want to waste. And there are worse places to be alone over New Years.
I had been to Paris before, also on a solo trip. I almost don’t want to experience it with people now because it has become place I have made uniquely my own when I am there. If you have not traveled solo, I cannot emphasize it enough how much better it is than traveling with people. Quite honestly, I was a bit excited that my friend bailed last second. Having your own schedule is a luxury.
Quarantine has halted my travels like everyone else, and now that we are closing in on a year of working from home, the itch to go anywhere nowadays cannot be ignored. I find myself scrolling through old travel photos and Instagram posts to briefly transport myself out of my small apartment.
That is when I came across the photo above. I took this on January 1, 2020 before shit hit the fan and we went into lockdown. By the way, Paris on New Years Day, not a great place to be a tourist. Nothing is open.
Thankfully, I had done enough damage to my liver and lungs the night before that I slept in until about 2:00 pm in the afternoon that things not being open didn’t really matter, given the shape I was in.
I was staying at an AirBnB in Pigalle, when I woke up I showered, got dressed and found a small place that was open for brunch. Couldn’t tell you what I ordered other than I know I got a beer to taper my hangover. I then walked about a mile and a half to the Canal St. Martin. Not sure why. A woman I talked to the night before recommended the area. So I walked there turned around and walk back. There was nothing there for me to do.
By this point it will be getting dark very shortly. I got back to Pigalle, the breakfast beer had worn off and I was feeling awful. I typed into Google Maps cafes near me and found one that was around the corner. And open. Cafe Bo Man. Perfect. There were a few patrons of varying ages and income sitting outside underneath the heaters having coffee or alcohol.
I sat down, a waiter came by and took my order. I took four years of French in high school and none of it stuck, but nonetheless I try to at least attempt to order in French, thankfully “beer and coffee please” is pretty attainable French phase for someone of limited capacity to speak French like myself.
My coffee cooled down and I sipped it pretty quickly to get that rush of caffeine that briefly masks the pain my body is in from New Years Eve. I set the coffee aside and turn my attention to the beer. But before I take a sip, I remember I have cigarettes on me that I bought prior to my trip, because remember, cigarettes in Europe don’t count.
I open the pack, pull one cigarette out. Light. Drag. Close my eyes and exhale as the nicotine permeates through my veins and I get that small head rush of tobacco and toxins that magically cures all. I set the lighted cigarette down, take a sip of beer and I could not be happier.
I was in Paris, alone with a cigarette and a beer sitting at a cafe. Hemingway romanticized this type of shit. I sat there for two hours, and the only person I talked to was my waiter when I needed more alcohol.
I sat there and read Eric Ripert’s 32 Yolks and had several drinks and a few cigarettes and enjoyed every second of it. And I miss the hell out of it. Those moments are the ones I miss most about traveling.
I did other things that were memorable, I went to the Jardin du Luxembourg and walked past the Louvre and Eiffel tower. But having a cigarette at a cafe with a coffee and a beer watching Parisians walk by was my favorite memory of that trip.
The randomness and happenstance of it all makes the memory so vivid. I was standing on a corner just hoping to find somewhere to sit down. Cafe Bo Man is by no means a Michelin star restaurant, its just a place. A place where normal people go for drinks and maybe something to eat.
Its not in a Rick Steve’s book, Bourdain or Action Bronson didn’t go there for raclettes or anything like that. There are thousands of places scattered all over Paris, just like it, they are indistinguishable. But yet Cafe Bo Man made a lasting impression on me. Because it was a place when I sat down it felt like I lived in Paris and this was my everyday spot.
