Being Literary in Paris

I had two thoughts coming to Paris:

1. I'd like to write in a cafe
2. I'd like to see a poetry reading (Preferably in french)

When I read on Voice of a City, last night after returning from Montmartre and before I could head to the 4th, that there was a poetry reading at L’Ogre à Plumes, I automatically ran upstairs grabbed my stuff and headed out the door. I had, of course neglected to look at the date, by tonight at 9pm they meant the night of the 2nd and not the third. I was promptly lost after exiting the subway and when I finally oriented myself, I realized that it was the big bar/restaurant right at the end of the block and visible from the Metro.

It was the most wonderful little bar. While it pretentiously called itself the "café littérature" it was exactly what I would have expected and desired it to be, a couple of little old type writers. Books in french place haphazardly in various places. A small and literary crowd. Decent wine for 3,50€ a glass. I don't think I'd ever had so much fun at a bar alone. I don't think I've ever been in a place where so many women sit at bars alone. I read, I wrote, I soaked it in. I listened to the American visiting friends talk for a while. I enjoyed a horrible french cigarette (the smell of which is quite irremovable by the way--aj please send cigs with bk--I'm dying here). I botched some french. I felt again, what it might be like to live here.

It was the perfect end, to the perfect day.