This morning, I sit in this tiny café. In this tiny street of this town that has become so tiny. I’m vaguely trying to do my work. This coffee I’m drinking, I do not think it is good; in Paris, I would have hated it. Yet here I love it. Like this chair wobbly, uncomfortable, and those passers-by who became friends, ye I do not know them. At home, we ignore the people that have crossed; we certainly don’t invest the time to sit and admire them. It’s strange, but I needed to love the people who live here; those who have always lived here, been here three months, arrived yesterday, those who will depart tomorrow and those who will remain all their lives.