So I’ve finally landed in Paris, the city of restaurants. Life never stops at the terraces filled with these signature minuscule round tables that can barely fit one’s lunch. A random glance at the terrace of the Comptoir gives a postcard picture of a Parisian terrace.
Every place looks like it hosts tons of stories. Wondering whom Victor Hugo dined with, and which drinks Hemingway would advise me to try at Cafe de la Paix.
Red lights of Le Relais Paris Opéra seduce to make a stop. And I’m sure its wall witnessed some modern dramas we would probably read about years after.
I’m staring at red velvet and white tablecloth over the shoulders of never-ending lines patiently waiting for their turn to dine.
Dear diary, there are two main activities here: dining and rushing. And I’m running across the crossroads in an attempt to keep up with the pace of the city.
“No, I don’t have a reservation. Yes, a table for one.” No, I’m not taking the end of the line. I have nowhere to hurry.
I don’t have any preferences as each venue looks like it has a story to share. And I’m running another few blocks like I know where I’m going.
What if they fake the activity too so everybody just aimlessly runs?
follow my visual stories on Instagram