Place St. Andre
I had a picnic lunch in the garden of Grenoble's art museum with Vincent, Nisha, Eve, Leena, and Lionel (he works there). We discussed cat near death experiences and parents guilty of drowning kittens. When it was time for Lionel to go back to work, the rest of us moved on to this cafe, sitting in what's become a regular spot on the plaza under the restaurant's awning.
I wasn't expecting a cafe experience, so I'd left home without my notebook and pen. Nisha offered a scrap of paper and Leena found a chewed pencil in her bag. Writing on a scrap with a cast away pencil reminded me of my mother's preferred method of keeping track of her B&B reservations ("I might have a full house this weekend," she'll say, "Except I can't remember if I rented out the downstairs bedroom or not.").
Leena wasn't sure where the pencil came from. "I don't know where I found this," she said passing it to me, dusting of some remaining flakes of blue paint. The consensus at the table was that the pencil most probably came from one of the elementary schools she was teaching at this year. No one investigated her teeth for blue paint chips or to see if they matched the marks on the pencil.
Vincent ordered a sirop citron a l'eau, Leena drank a grand cafe, and the rest of us stuck to simple cafes.
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