By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
Motorised scooters and shrill cars graze past each other, in a mélange of passion and chaos. The multi-coloured cups lacing the coin-sized tables were of no match to the vibrancy of afternoon life hurrying past the terrace, with no clue it was the star of the matinee performance. There is an equal sense of stress emanating from everyone, from the young woman rushing to the boulangerie to get the first pick of baguettes and croissants to the suited-up man sprinting towards the Guy Moquet station, for the already-departed metro to get to work on time. Amongst the mayhem peeled through a rare breed of relaxed Parisians. An old woman, doused in so much perfume the streets mimicked her aroma, reclined in a languid sense of nothingness. A battle of fragrance begins, her Chanel perfume competing against the allure of ground coffee. No clear victor is crowned; the real champion remains the nauseating scent of cigarette smoke ruminating from, seemingly, everyone in this city. The old woman rests on a bench seat whilst her pearls lounged upon her wrinkled collarbone. Matching her freedom from tension, followed the young woman performatively perching on the edge of a wicker-woven seat taking a whole six minutes to apply a coat of red lipstick - only for this to be superfluous after planting a kiss on the brim of an espresso cup. The cup gorges on the role of her boyfriend, standing in as a temporary lover, until her real lover arrives on a motorbike, peels his helmet off a pool of tousled curls and rests his hand on her skinny-jean-coated thigh. The little cup sulks back to his equally little saucer, stained with a lipstick scar and left emasculated by the larger latte cup the boyfriend has just ordered. Decorative ashtrays hassle and tempt the customers to partake in the city’s age-old tradition of heating up one’s lungs whilst nursing a coffee. One customer doesn’t even attempt to resist the siren-esque temptation. The ashtray’s prey is an old man reading a newspaper with an immaculately poised bare-ankled and cross-legged stance, a posed dissatisfied look and a cigarette of which he never actually touches. He has perfected the no-touch art of smoking, maybe he thought his hands were of better use flicking the pages of Le Figaro and fingering through, what was left of, his grey hair. Even the waiter, the binding actor for the theatrics of the terrace-stage, evokes a notion of tranquillity, even when he is up to his pierced-ears in coffee orders. A raffish charm springs from him as, although he is clearly hungover, the dark circles hugging his eyes emphasise their vibrant hue of vert, whilst his oily hair has self-styled itself into the flawless beachy barnet. Maybe it is he who occupies the starring role of the unknowing stage, the patriarch of the performance, spraying his soul around the terrace with a dimpled smile and stubble, too shy to make a full appearance. It is a play repeated every day, sometimes with regular faces and sometimes with a brand new cast. They believe they are the audience to the spectacle of the Parisian street, sitting in solace as they judge, gawk at, and eyeball the passing life before them. Yet, unaware, they are the real actors, an exhibition for an observer, on display for the viewing pleasure of whoever seeks out the calm amongst the chaos. Le Championnet is a little pocket of détente, a secret, hiding behind the chaos of everyday life in the 18th Arrondissement.