Sundays: Part 1

I have been thinking about Sundays lately. Sometimes shortened by the previous night or beginning early so as to make the early bus to the beach. No one Sunday was the same as the previous and it would change again the following week. The mornings could be spent enjoying a coffee in J’s room but sometimes my impatience to start the day would send me into town early, alone. A soft spot for the quiet way a Sunday starts in town, the morning light gently playing in the narrow street beneath the flower boxes of apartments. The boulangerie nearest Parc Jourdan always boasted a long line on these mornings. Older men and women or families emerging from the small space with baguettes under arms or oranges boxes adorned with purple ribbon. I came prepared with my one euro ten and ordered one croissant. At the fountain quatre dauphins I would skirt around the outside not wanting to be interfere with the taking of a photo on the fountains edge in the days early light. The Cours Mirabeau, when I came to cross it, would sometimes catch me by surprise with a brocante neatly lined in a row which extended down the long road, beneath the cover of the neatly lined trees. The stalls would have collections of frames, china and other ancient keepsakes that made me wonder how anyone could sell these precious pieces.

There were the first Sundays of month, during which a book market materialized in Place de l’Hotel de Ville. The first time I happened upon it by accident and was consumed by the literature both old and new that had been stacked into milk crates and occupied all available table space. I would hunt through the piles in search of classics to which I wanted to purchase as a commitment to learn French adequately. Absently I would flip through the art history books of Cezanne and Van Gogh and Picasso. I thought of their experiences in this town. I might smile to no one in particular or just to myself. After an unsuccessful yet all the while fulfilling search I would retire to a table at Chez Mus, perhaps pulling out my notebook in a naive state of inspiration or pull out a wearing book to be paired with my espresso. Eventually all others would rise and I would be in the company of close friends.

The afternoons might slip away consumed by pointless wandering or laying in parks and feeling particularly lovely. All too often we would find ourselves as hungry students craving a bite to eat and realizing that the stores had long since closed.

With fondness I can recall the nights. The meeting in the evening beneath the sprawling awning of a cafe and joining in quiet conversation over a glass of red wine. Sundays can be lonely and sometimes we were boisterous and other nights we would be more reserved, reflecting on ourselves in the company of one another.