At first I wanted to have coffee somewhere but didn't know where. There was a chill wind, biting and scratching my face and it had stripped the last honey gold leaves off the trees. It was a Wednesday around 14:00.
I went up to the station itself, with its huge arched window, a semi-circle of glass segments above which is a large, full moon clock. There was a little wooden house selling specialities: paté de foie gras, Saucisse d'Alsace, gingerbread, sable, mustard and pots of honey. The cab wheels clattered over the cobbles and I went to Café Flo, a chic little place with an expensive menu.
Shocked by the prices, I went to the café in the station. It was near the destination board and reverberated with the drone of trains, the gabble of travelers and the purr of suitcase wheels.
But finding it too droughty, I left the station and wandered over the road to find a cosy little café. It had red velvet seats and a christmas tree, which looked rather fat and drunken and about to topple over. It was covered in odd shaped baubles. Beyond it were too women dipping into their discussion with as much gusto as the food they were eating. They didn't notice me drawing them.
I ordered first an 'omelette nature' with green salad, followed by a crepe covered in cannelle. To wash it all down, a 'café creme' while doing sketches of the women. I drew under the table, snatching away their movements like a thief and storing them in my book.
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