***
In Paris, claiming a table on a terrace is almost a philosophy. One doesn’t sit down merely to turn it into a quick pit stop - that’s what the counters are for. Even there, no one will offer a gentle hint that it’s time to move along, no unspoken eviction once the cup or glass is empty.
The man on the terrace has probably been there the better part of the morning. He knows he is free to remain as long as he needs: to contemplate, to drift into thought. If he wants to disappear into a book, work on his laptop, or simply sit and let time pass, no one will mind. His small table is his for as long as he requires it. And that, of course, is the whole point - the particular pleasure of being alone without feeling lonely, perfectly content in one’s own tiny space, unbothered, lost in thought. Or not. - BPJ
