A landscape of madeleines

A lazy morning today. I haven't had much jetlag, possibly because I started out in less than perfect form. This morning the bones seemed heavy. S knocks on my door to check in, as I didn't arrive at their apartment for breakfast. They are off to do some work, and I yawn and mention 'cafe.'

Breakfast is a classic affair here. It starts off with a dozy walk along the backyard of a water's edge in, lately, beautiful silky light. It has been unusually cloudy, but there are shadows. Perfect for photos, but this trip isn't about snapshots too much. Four-packs of guys sit - a world-wide phenomenon - and street booths set out their stuff.

The side streets are encadrements of desert sand. I can smell in my room what I imagine is the Sahara. We got a dump of sand not far from our front door, for the neighbour's wall work, a temporary traffic calming measure. Long streets are paved, but they are crumpled in spots, like the tops of madeleines. I embody the five-year old in me, hum a tune and hop along the ridges.

The cafe has the ambiance of Our Town cafe at Main and Kingsway in Vancouver but with the patisserie quality of The French Bakery at the same intersection. A casual interior decor, by one who is attempting something but could probably be more skilled in making the necessary visual calculations. The bread which comes gratis however soars above anything I've had in Vancouver. The softness within is second to none - does that speak of a softness of spirit, within the hard outer shell of us all?

There are two single women and a mixed couple. Yesterday was a woman that smoked in the cafe. She looked pretty good taking a puff. On the plane from Brussels, I recall them saying that it was a non-smoking flight. Wait till your get off, marginalized smokers, you will be able to increase your chances of cancer here at your leisure.

I pick up an events notice at the counter - there's an interesting event each evening this week. I tell J this and he says that they typically start at 2. One time, some people went to a concert at midnight, only to have the musician start at 3. Things happen at night here. I wandered with J yesterday as he tried to take footage for 'empty space' in his documentary project. We saw loads of pirogues by the river, with fishermen ready to head out in the night to fish.

The day was a big one for S and J, and so in the evening we went to a very swanky restaurant for dinner. At a time of year when it should be packed, but we were the only ones there; the tourism industry has been all but completely devastated by the hands of a single Guinean earlier this year.

We chat about how S got his laptop screen fixed that day. No 'we have to get a part from Dakar.' No 'it's not worth fixing' if in Brussels. There was a book fair earlier this month, and we talk about how some writers tend to write from their own experience.

 'Except for science fiction writers,' qualified J, as he takes an ikea spoonful of potage de legumes.

'I hope not.'