When the sun rises in Paris, the gray, sad and wet mood of autumn is suddenly replaced by the miniature legacy of the Sun King. Balcony balustrades sparkle from the night rain, the red lights of taxis meander in the roundabout, and the four of them sit in the café and sway in the morning. People in a hurry on the street, scooters. They are dressed behind curtains, eyes polished with feathers. At noon, these worldly people still found it difficult to move their arms, toes, and forehead. They are messy. Next to the coffee shop, the pharmacy’s green neon flashed, almost tempting. If you come, here is a remedy for the problems of the ephemeral world. The pharmacy opens first, not the baker. Beginning at seven in the morning, the iron grille door was drawn with a chain and the owner pushed his panels in the dark. There’s a pharmacist in every corner of town anyway, no matter if it’s a narrow street in Montmarte or avenue Diderot. Café and pharmacy, this is the city of light in the morning. Why do I want to report this? Because both are places for me to deeply experience the city of people unfamiliar to me, or at least so far out of the books of Balzac and Zola, Annie Erno or Michelle Welbeck, in an hour. The pharmacy and the café at dawn are the writer’s treasury, a scientist with dirty little secrets.
I left the hotel room at 7:48 am. The cafe could have been on the left, but I couldn’t go there because only those who have not been vaccinated with Sputnik or have a valid QR code test can go there. Whether you are sick or not. So in the roundabout I headed to the pharmacy because I needed a negative Covid test.
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