Paris in the Mornings

By Cole Swanson
August 26, 2025

Journal Entry of August 14, 2025

Jet lag’s a monster. Not only because of the painful resistance you must endure against an early bedtime. But because the next day, when all you want is to wake up to anything but an alarm, you feel pressured by your inner explorer to embrace as much of the unknown land that will surely, over the next 12 days, take your breath away.

At seven the next morning, after being dead to the world for about nine hours, I peeled open my eyelids and hopped out of my twin bed that was pushed into the corner of my walk-in-closet of a room to partake in the calmness of a Parisian morning before our touristing would begin.

All I wanted was to sit at a café in the morning when it’s quiet and warm – but not yet hot – and sip an espresso and pick at a croissant and consider that this type of life is ordinary for the Parisians, not a caricature. I sought this type of moment so I could feel some escape from reality, as if I were being filmed for a movie wherein the intelligent dramatic looks poised and content, sitting solo at a small table, with a tiny espresso, waiting for a serendipitous love to walk by. Most gratifyingly, the director would never say cut and my life would forever feel this relaxing.

So I went to CaféEtienne on Rue de Turbigo with my dad.

I would not receive my solo experience of contemplating living in a loft and writing my own Moveable Feast. But I was able to appreciate the mornings, which dramatically oppose the energy of the night life.

Unlike the U.S., France does not seem to rise until nine, and many of the brasseries – except Etienne – open their doors at eight at the earliest. So as we walked not two blocks to the café, I was able to peacefully admire how the sun gently opened the eyes of the city that brought us the Moulin Rouge. Shadows on buildings waned as they were warmed by the sun making its way to high noon. Wood-paneled shutters, open to the world, welcomed the glow as bed sheets dried on close lines from balconies. The few residents that walked the streets with my Dad and I were already dressed for the afternoon heat ahead – linen, sundresses, and button-ups that exposed chests from the sternum up.

Should we have decided to walk with no destination in mind, I would have roamed with the intention of being lost. To saunter at a pace similar to box breathing, leaving my feet autonomous, and my mind dissociated from its list of to-dos. I would walk the same way I do when walking in the woodlands of Seattle – not treating this action as an activity for physical exertion, rather as one whose sole purpose is admiration. I would stop to take a moment to consider the many shades of Paris, letting myself fixate on each building and stop sign and crack in the pavement as the film over my eyes — which typically amalgamates all individuality as a singular whole — would fracture every hue with the same manner as a kaleidoscope.

But with intention, my Dad and I found our way to Café Etienne. And it was okay because this empty café would provide me with a new cause: finding an espresso, in all of France, that was better than theirs.

I’m not much for espressos typically; I don’t often relish the quality of ground bean juice like many of the others in my generation, and so I don’t sip coffee in its purest form too often. I’m more of a vanilla latte kinda guy – I like it, okay? But I was in Paris, and I didn’t feel like being myself. And $1.50 for an espresso? I’ll try almost anything for $1.50 in Paris. And I will say, after having had my head be turned so assuredly by an espresso, I now kind of understand why people become critical about the quality of their beans.

Like many of the bistros, dimensionally, Etienne is wide but short in depth. It stretches to fit into the alleyways where much of the cafés are placed, and so to see anyone sitting inside was a rarity in Paris. I found myself considering the life of a server, thinking about the amount of claustrophobia I would have to overcome during the rainy months. The lack of air conditioning inside wasn’t much of a seductress either, so one might as well embrace the heat where they can best people-watch.

My Dad and I sat outside at the ubiquitous round tables, our legs and frames spilling over the wicker chairs, apologizing as a new customer attempted to squeeze by. I think finding a way to make yourself thin is a common practice in this city because even the trucks and cars find a way through the tight alleys.

Gradually, residents busied the streets at the same pace I sipped my ounce of espresso and ate my croissant. This was a normal life for them, and I wondered, should they ever visit Seattle, if they would view the city with the same awe that a tourist views their city. It would be a massive stretch to compare the two, but when you’ve lived in an area your whole life, amalgamation becomes innate, and appreciation retreats from focusing on the surrounding beauty and more on making it through the day. So, I wonder if there is any magic I’m not seeing anymore in my own city.

It was time for my Dad and I to return to our loft and begin our touristy obligations with my mom and sister. In about one hour we would be headed to the Louvre.