Paris is a city of great pleasures, but one of the best is sitting on the exterior terrace of a cafe, drinking something delicious, and puffing away on a cigar. It’s a pretty complete experience — two kinds of intoxicants entering the bloodstream, the bustle and hum of the city as it passes by, the nearly constant distinctive police car klaxon honking away in the distance. But what really makes it so enjoyable is what you don’t experience.
No one complains about the swirling cloud of cigar smoke that envelops the nearby tables. No one coughs ostentatiously or calls over the waiter to demand that you stop. Even in places that are overrun with tourists, it’s as if everyone just gets what Paris is all about: sitting, smoking, drinking, and staring into the middle distance, wearing a happy-sad smile. Or engrossed in a book, which is what I was doing last week in Paris.
