There was someone -- I couldn't see who it was -- asking in English if he could smoke a cigar here, and the answer was unreservedly negative. No cigars.

The sun is reflecting off the large, curved modern building across the street, trying to blind me with slightly differently-angled multiple apparitions.

My tabletop is wooden, composed of diagonal pieces of wood forming a large "X" across the surface. My chair is metal, painted maroon, with a beige wicker seat. The base of the table is painted turquoise. I was given a blue tube of powdered sugar to go with my espresso.

The radio is playing pop hits such as the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)," as well as a few French songs I'm relatively fond of.