It was very refreshing and comforting all at the same time sitting in that French cafe. All the usual suspects were there. The teenagers wearing piercings, hoodies and sullen looks. The group of men in pageboy caps drinking minuscule glasses of white wine and gesticulating wildly over Le Figaro. A couple meeting for a quick drink during their lunch break.
And my favorites, the patrons sliding gracefully into their 7th decade at the table in front of me whose pretty mini dogs sporting doggie sweaters sat on chairs with them at the table. There was a man without a hair on his head who made up for it with a big gray mustache and prominent artsy glasses with thick black rims. He had a min pin with a red sweater. The woman sitting across from him had raspberry-colored hair forced onto the very top of her head by a dozen barrettes and clips, the same exact color as her coat, even the faux-fur collar. I wonder which came first: the hair dye or the coat? I would love to see where they live. I imagine their apartment to be drenched in light and full of plants.
Apparently the town Mulhouse is pronounced mool-OOze like Toulouse and not like MULL-house like I assumed. Whoops. Apparently my French is rustier than I thought. But that’s not where I was on Saturday. I was in Colmar.
Not too shabby for a $30 and a 45 minute round trip train ride.