In Amsterdam, offline pop up cafes have emerged where people can sit, think, talk, write without the interruption of the disruptive digital world.
Ok, so it’s a novel throw back to the 90s and has potentially condescending undertones of “get off your phone” but based on a recent similar experience in Paris, I’m all for it.
I spent a whole afternoon people watching in St Germain, Paris, with my husband in early Spring.
It started as an homage to Hemingway who had spent many years hanging out in the famed literary triangle of the fifth arrondissement:
Les Deux Magots. Cafe de Flores. Brasserie Lipp. All located at the intersection of what is still the ultimate urban catwalk and delicious feast for the senses that is Paris.
Parisians have the art of people watching and cafe lifestyle down pat. They literally spend hours, sitting on a glass of wine. Taking their time over a 3 course lunch. Making new acquaintances as nearby diners move on and others snap up the coveted front tables.
At Les Deux Magots, it’s 5pm and the jazz band starts. They are folded into a corner by the doorway, a spontaneously formed group who had nothing better to do on a Monday evening as Parisians returned to the capital after escaping the oppressive heat of August.
The musicians interact with nearby guests. They take a break after just a few songs for a cigarette and a small glass of red wine.
As they start up again the police arrive. A few neighbours have complained about the noise so early in the evening (which seems very un-Parisian to me) on a Monday. Arguments ensue. Musicians gesticulate wildly and then shrug it off as they slowly – deliberately slowly – start packing away their instruments and diners weigh in with the police, complaining just as loudly that their atmospheric Monday evening has now been disposed of for such flimsy reasons.
People are finishing work. They stop in the street, share a laugh and a cigarette, and resume their journey in their well heeled, sensible shoes.
There are few tourists here, and we desperately hope we’ve managed to look like we fit in with the locals.
We only use our phones as cameras. So as to capture the spirit of this slice of Parisian life.
The art of people watching is not to be an outsider. We aren’t observing rare birds in their natural habitat! We are one of them, albeit intrigued by the way they do Mondays that is so different to ours.
We are surrounded by students, ex musicians, ex pat Americans and English who’ve made Paris their home in their third acts of life.
Others are professionals, global citizens who’ve mastered the blurred line of work, travel and lifestyle. Just fell in love with a banker from Switzerland? And you’re an insurance tech exec based in Hong Kong? No problem. We make it work. And it works well!
Caught out admiring the style of a woman passing by? How flattering, she says! This is a style all my own and girl do I own it!
I take her photo and she feigns irritation but her wry smile gives her away.
It’s getting late and we flit across the road to Cafe de Flore where I have read that the real locals sit upstairs in the dining room and debate literature, politics and fashion.
Unfortunately, even in Paris Monday nights finish early and it’s technically closed. However, the maître d sees my disappointment and offers me a tour, excitedly telling me about the time another Aussie frequented there – Russell Crowe, proudly showing me a picture taken with him.
As we head down the stairs to leave, he races after me, clasping a rolled up paper in his hand. It’s a round paper place mat, featuring the iconic cafe in green, and insists I take it as a souvenir. We later frame it and it takes pride of place on our travel wall at home.
Across the road, Brasserie Lipp is our final stop, completing our literary cafe crawl.
Opened in 1880, the brasserie enjoys a rich history including as a regular haunt of author Ernest Hemingway and featuring in his melt “A Moveable Feast”
For me it’s the epitome of Paris in the 20s, post world war 1 when Americans flocked there to escape the restraint of conservative USA and prohibition.
The corner booth is reputed to be where Hemingway liked to sit, so he could see the entire bar.
It’s vacant and I’m delighted to perch myself there and order a drink.
Red wine in hand, I exhale slowly, soaking it all up. The red leather booths. Winding down waiters wiping tables and dreaming about sleep or their post work plans.
The people watching is sparse because of the late hour.
We’re watching guests leave, with full bellies and animated story telling and laughter with friends.
As the crowd fades so do we. It’s past midnight in Paris and our journey ends for another day in the city of light.
Phones down, eyes wide open, curiosity plugged in to the world as it presents itself before us.
This, mes amies, is the art and joy of people watching.
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