Get up early enough and you’ll find Paris as empty as a made bed. There’s something calming about watching the streets wake up, each bleary-eyed passerby lost in their Monday thoughts. Maybe it’s the comfort of consistency. The yawn of the metal shutters rolling up, the line of legs at the bar rotating like a shift change, espresso cups and stacks of coins deftly swapping hands. “The usual,” goes without saying. But every so often a look or the squeeze of an arm seem to hint at something genuine lying beneath the how’s-your-day banality. La chorégraphie du quotidien, so well rehearsed as to be inevitable, or the rote memory of “just another morning” slipping in and on and by.
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