One of the most iconically Parisian cafés, Café de Flore was an St-Germain old haunt for the likes of Hemingway, Sartre, Camus, and countless other creatives and intellectuals. Opened in 1885, it’s one of the oldest and most famous cafés in the city. I’ve never been. How is this possible? I recently learned they have a small boutique just up the street from the café entrance, where they sell official cups and saucers, tea pots, and other essentials. Needless to say, this will be an important stop on my next trip back.
I know that realistically, there is no perfect spot in which to write. You either write well anywhere or not at all. There isn’t a magical seat in the world where some creative vortex opens and voila, your book pops out at you, complete and perfect. I know that. But it doesn’t mean I can’t daydream about sitting at a table under the cream awning in the early morning chill of a quiet spring day, scribbling away furiously having been divinely inspired by the ghosts of writers past, ordering cup after cup of tea and basking in my own genius. Une fille peut rêve.