You find the left bank pretty, but mostly tired and sleepy and staid. You prefer the urban chaos and current-day artistic vibrancy of Belleville, the less-than-posh theatres and revues of the Grands Boulevards, and the avant-garde whimsy of the Centre Pompidou.
A stylish, die-hard progressive, you wouldn’t be caught dead shopping in St-Germain on a Sunday.
“Trop bourgeois“, you might say with a pointed sneer, as tahini from your falafel dribbles down your chin.
Your ideal day in Paris starts with a strong, preferably too-bitter espresso at a corner bar in Ménilmontant that’s simply called “Le Café du Coin”. It’s served to you by a gruff but kindhearted local named Pierrot who hasn’t left the neighborhood in decades.
You continue with a stroll through the slightly dilapidated, narrow Faubourgs near Place de la République, then search for used metallic lettering at shops in the covered passageways of the Grands Boulevards. It’s for a collage.
In the early evening, you meet with friends for an apéritif and a glass or two of biodynamic, organic wine at a reconverted warehouse-cum-rooftop bar.
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