Let's reminisce, because times are still what they were

There was another blog, a little while before. I read it again, today and remembered sitting in Maison de Bertaux, the French coffeehouse in Soho. And cigarettes. It was a while since I inhaled the smoke... So here are two old entries. For you.
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Observations

"The clock has just passed one in the afternoon. In the corner of the French cafe she sits snuggled up with her book. At the bottom of her cup is a small pool of cold coffee.

A young woman and her, presumably gay male friend, discuss their potential future. Their conversation is a low murmur; plans of a Yale scholarshpi, applications to university in America dominate their talk. While the man speaks, the woman draws a deep drag of her cigarette. She shuts her eyes, shifts her head upwards and clearly enjoys the thick cloud that escapes her lips.

Nina Smone plays at a low volume, barely audible.

Private lives, dreams intermingle in the quiet of the cafe spreading through the room like the slow lingering smoke. It touches the other guests if rarely noticed. It is about the quiet seclusion of friends, strangers who participate in other's lives unnoticed, if only for an hour.

The friend leave. All that remain is the dying cigarette haphazardly tossed into the dirty ashtray. Nina Simone continues her singing without interruption; "Try a Little Tenderness".

Another couple to her right speak in an unknown language, probably Japanese. She cannot be certain. All they allow for interpretation is their body language and tone of voice. They engage in the same quiet murmur as the departed strangers.
This is what Maison de Bertaux creates, the quiet whispers, sometimes intense discussions with an artistic edge.

To provide an escape from the masses, the standardisation of society. If only for an hour or two, the guests find solace in the place that rflects another era, a different dimension where discontent with the state translated into passionate discussions of uproar. The cafe digs into the corners of a person's thoughts, places ideas into a different light. Desire for life, for quality, and wisdome is at its peak. Books, paintings, music are the foods that satisfy the hungry appetites."
-- Written today in Maison de Bertaux.

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"It's about knowing you'll die" [The Guardian]

I thought I'd share some comments from the Guardian on smoking:

"While I was smoking I often pictured my lungs, just to torture myself; in my mind's eye, years of steady puffing had transformed them from cheery pink wet breathing baubles into a brittle pair of crackling, desicated paper bags, dangling side by side like twin toasted whilemeal pitta breads filled with tar and tumours. Little wonder I wanted to quit."

"Yes, if there is going to be a winner in all this smoking ban hoo-ha, surely it will be them, the little children, safe in the knowledge that their lungs will now be tar-free and gleaming as they galabant from meadow to meadow. Too bad that they will be too obese to walk."

"Smoking in art is an emblem of mortality... just because something kills you doesn't mean it isn't beautiful or at least "sublime"."

And so, I console myself with the illusion that by smoking my cigarette I am somehow connecting to the creative world. If someone dares smoke next to me on the street however, I will glare at them in the haughty manner of a non-smoker.