I walked in and immediately dropped my stuff by the nearest table, relieved to finally be able to be in my little safe haven, tucked away from the fickle Paris weather.
“Tu vas bien ?” A familiar face asked.
“Ouf, oui, mais j’ai trop faim,” I replied as I plopped myself down in a chair. I was already mentally deciding between whatever the salad or sandwich of the day was, deciding I’d go for whichever had the best ratio of tomato and avocado.
When the sandwich that I wound up choosing (the idea of cheese melting on toasted bread made me so weak in the knees, it was an easy win) finally made it’s way to my table, I sat and ate without any inkling of self-consciousness. I didn’t pull out a book, didn’t set my phone of the table next to me, and didn’t even consider what work I could do on my computer as I started eating. I just ate. I sat and I ate and I looked around, and that’s it. It wouldn’t have felt any different if I had been sitting at my own kitchen table instead of the table in my favorite cafe, which is so small that its size is quite comparable to my kitchen.
When I finished my meal, my friend, the friend I didn’t know before I started coming to this cafe, came over to pick up my plate. “Tu veux un capuccino?” He asked. I smiled and nodded, he knew me all too well. I, likewise, knew exactly what to expect: a little mug filled with the milkiest, frothiest sips of caffeinated heaven; my cup of paradise.
I come here to work, to chat, to catch up with friends, or simply to read and sit for a while. But no matter what I come here for, when I come, I feel at home. I talk with the employees, addressing them by name and chatting about the day and what I’ve been up to recently. I speak English or French (and sometimes a mix of both), depending on how I feel or who I’m with that day. I have a frequent visitor card full of lots of little coffee shaped stamps, and my computer connects automatically to the wifi. I’m at home here, for more reasons than just being a frequent visitor.
This is my place. It’s one of those little mental landmarks that I have in each arrondissement. It’s a place a friend showed me that I would show friends; a place that pulses with funky music but maintains just enough peace to work or relax. This is the heartbeat of Paris. Intimate cafes, closet-sized hideouts playing funked up, electronic remixes of songs, and a menu that holds a short list of options reflecting a myriad of cuisines given a French infusion; this is my heart and soul.
I’m at home in the cafe where they know me by name and the music couldn’t be more my taste if I picked it out myself, but I feel so much more than that. I feel at home in French, so much so that I catch myself filling an English sentence with a few French words and fillers. I feel at home in the bakery, where I don’t need the names laid out before me to know what to ask for. I feel at home on the street, easily navigating my way around other pedestrians and puddles and in and out of little side pathways, without ever laying eyes on Google maps. I feel at home when I see a friend after a long time apart and she tells me “she’s missed my accent.” I even feel at home even when I go somewhere new, where no one knows my name, and I get asked where I’m from.
I’m at home in my foreignness, at home in my skin. Home is just a series of fitting ins.
The Transition Artist 