There are many in New York, certainly.
There are many in novels. If you know
Hemingway's 'Garden of Eden' they can even form
the basis for a couple hundred pages of bohemian activity
and mediterranean abandon. Le Gamin, where this photo
was taken, is in the West Village, and it is no exception
to the rule that a standard issue french cafe is dastardly
in its romanticism. Jules in the East Village is wonderful as well,
a subterranean (yet somehow, sunny) reminder of the
French Resistance and that languid "counter" culture can be found,
and that jazz trumpet can come out of a mouth with no
instrument.
I'm sitting at the moment in Metropolitan Cafe in Federal Hill,
proof that Baltimore has its little secrets too, and certainly
Bob Dylan on the iPod plugged in behind the bar only adds that
American 'je ne sais quoi' that perhaps I was missing while enjoying
the Frenchness of the Village.
There would be some who would say, "stay! stay and enjoy your cafe!"
Wake up on a sunny little brick street,
Eat your oatmeal, write about love.
Baltimore is magic. Stay with us and discover us,
and notice how we're a little slower, a little sweeter-
and you are welcome to have your paper and your
coffee as long as you'd like.
well now I refuse to say "hon."
and I reserve the right to jump on the train, where all the best thinking is done,
and if I can't find my red beans and my louisiana lassitude one day
Well no matter how at home I feel in this little cafe,
I'll just have to keep looking for my own quotidien.
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