The boulangerie is bustling.
It’s early morning. Paris. September 2024.
Beautiful baguettes — dark, light, tradition, demi — poke like rustic flower stems from wicker baskets behind the counter.
I order a café au lait.
“Sur place?” the vendeuse asks.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît.” I answer.
I know the drill by now. And she knows me. But the first time I came in, the question flustered me...
