Coffees. The plural is chosen quite deliberately, as I always had more than just one. Coffees in the rain. And coffees in the cold. Next to Frenchmen, next to Americans and next to Japanese, next to beautiful people from all over the world, and next to depressed, but very stylish Parisians. Coffees in high-toned places, and coffees in places off the tracks. Coffees that were being served with the warmest of smiles, and coffees that were being served with ostentatious disgust. This particular disgust was actually quite amusing as it was on display at a café in the Marais, on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, and if you are a waiter who happens to dislike gays, you should not go to work in their natural habitat. Amusing also, as gays tend to mistake me for a straight guy. But that’s another story. I had coffees that were just great. And coffees that tasted like way too strong Nescafé. I had them accompanied by a cigarette, and later on by some Aspirin. I did mention how cold and rainy it was, didn’t I? I had coffees to go from Starbucks, quite sans allure, and coffees in the presence of Simone de Beauvoir au Flore, that is if her spirit still haunts the place, I think she won’t approve of that Louis Vuitton store, squeezing his bags full-mouthed in that little space between the Flore and the Deux Magots, although, who am I to complain, I paid my bill using a Louis Vuitton wallet, but at least I didn’t buy it there, in the very middle of St.Germain-des-Prés, but on the right bank, that’s where you are supposed to buy such things. But back to my coffee sermon: I had coffees to wake me up, to rest from excessive strolling, to get invigorated, to watch the passers-by, to contemplate, to digest, to enjoy the scenery. Parisian coffees are not coffees, they are life.