Morning characters

The city is humanity's most beautiful piece of theater, and that opening number really is something to see.

Morning on Boulevard Voltaire, Paris XI.

There is distinctive pleasure in a morning walk in the city.

This is true of almost any real city, which is to say those where commerce and social life take place on the street.

It is also true in nearly any kind of weather, save the foulest winter, but even then you will revel to gaze in windows warmly lit as you pass along deserted streets silent with the dampening hush of falling snow.

But you will be especially lucky if the day is fine, with bright skies and a crisp freshness in the air. On that kind of day you should sleep until the sun wakes you but then dress quickly, lace up your most sensible shoes, and bound down the stairs and out the door. You won't want to miss a moment. Turn right or left, it doesn't matter; just pick a direction and go. 

The scene might at first feel a little unremarkable, even dour, as you - unwashed and uncaffeinated - are passed by those less lucky, the besuited unfortunates. They, after a nip of metallic Nespresso, must now bound (with considerably less optimism than you gamely exhibited a moment ago) toward the crowded Métro that will hurry them with merciless efficiency toward a stale office, an overflowing inbox, and a calendar stacked with pointless meetings.

Let them hurry by. They know troubles you do not, for your eyes squint today not at a menacing laptop screen but open widely to take in the whole wild and awakening urban world.

Slow your pace as they quicken theirs. Plant your flag in the ground with this speed differential. Claim the morning: it's yours.

Do follow the racing rats, though. They're mostly headed toward the Métro entrance, and commuters mean commerce, and commerce is the lifeblood and energy of the morning.

You'll know you're getting close to the stairway leading down to that subterranean wormhole when the pace around you becomes even quicker. They're dashing across the street now; they're practically leaping down the stairs, ignoring the newspaper hawker and impromptu bookseller as they fumble for their Metro cards.

Watch them stream down the steps as water flows down a drain. Rejoice in your good fortune to stay on high ground.

Back to the newspaper hawker, now. He's just a minor supporting character, a background player, in the day's dramatic opening number. Watch as the trench coated masses flow around him, mostly ignoring his efforts. See how he keeps at it, keeps focused on the task of dispensing his stack of papers amid the relentless rush. Notice how he remains pleasant, cheerful even, despite being paid little heed and scant thanks by your poor already-late neighbors.

That's classic morning-character stuff. He might be a chorus player, but the morning belongs to the chorus. It's prime time not for the celebrated chef but for the window scrubber and the kid setting up the café tables on the sidewalk. Morning belongs to the guy balancing a huge sack of baguettes on his delivery bike and the bleary-eyed woman unlocking the pharmacy door; she always comes a quarter-hour early so she can move at her own pace. Morning is the garbage crew, already halfway through their shift, laughing and joking as they remove all evidence of last night's overindulgences

Morning isn't for the dozens of lawyers and accountants and media types in their high-ceilinged offices in the imposing buildings down on the big boulevard; morning is for the woman scrubbing the golden plate that bears their name discreetly affixed to the side of the edifice where they toil. She toils too, but with the lightness that comes from manual work faithfully and independently completed. She toils this way every day.

The guy washing down the sidewalk toils with lightness, too; and when like clockwork they pass each other between 10:35 and 10:42 every morning they pause for a chat. It's not a long talk – sometimes just a few sentences of hello and good wishes, and always a laugh – because they each have a long list of things to do and the morning is the best time to do them. So they chat and they joke and they say ciao.

And he goes back to washing the sidewalk. He's a morning man, too, and his work is essential listening on the morning walker's soundtrack. Splash of water, clink of metal pail, gurgle of water through cobblestones, brush brush brush brush. Repeat. These simple sounds are the cleansing essence of this freshest part of the day.

Turn around, now, toward the café. Not the big one on the corner but the smaller one two doors down from that. It's really more of a tabac, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of place on a corner with four bigger, finer, busier spots. But the waiter kid has finished setting up the tables and chairs (all facing the street, as they ought properly to be) and he's having his espresso while the boss, a bit older, has his third cigarette of the morning. They're laughing about something as the kid ducks his head a bit. Joke must be on him.

Give them another minute or so to enjoy the moment. The warms their faces, the café's empty, their opening tasks are done, and the day is unspoilt and flush with the possibility that things will go all right.

Let them have that moment. Let yourself have that moment, too.

Right about now a delivery truck will pull up. Out will pop another morning man who will greet the café guys with a quick "Ça va?" Boss guy responds with an affirmative and liquid-sounding "Ça va et toi", that final word a tiny clue into the deep familiarity the two share. They know each other, not quite as friends, but in the way that comes from seeing a passing stranger so regularly and frequently that over time the details fill in and they become a real person. Same beer, same delivery time, same quick espresso, week in and week out, in all the years since these two were cast in these roles. They're long past Beer Guy and Café Boss now; they're fully developed characters, with all the backstory and nuance that honors their small part in maintaining the order of the city and the meaning behind all its routines.

Waiter kid pops inside to pull an espresso for the beer guy. This is your cue. Take a seat at the table. Face outward, toward the street, the only way. Greet the kid with a smile. Ask for your coffee. It won't be very good. But that's not the point. Good coffee isn't the point of coming to these little dives.

You come because regular places like these are an essential part of the morning. You come to celebrate all of the bit characters that make this the best part of the day. You come because this is where they go, and you have the privilege to spend a few moments in their world. Sip that bitter tar; observe the simple truths of a city awakening. 

The city is humanity's most beautiful piece of theater, and that opening number really is something to see. Don't miss it. Bound out of bed; meet the day and find your place in it.