There are Pauls cafes all over the world, but I didn’t know that when I walked in.
The prices are quite reasonable for a cafe, but the elegance of the design and decor speak of a higher order.
The serving counter is bright, the displays of food and pastries vast.
In the seating area, light blue velour chairs suggest a long history.
Framed photographs, both colour and black and white, hang from white walls.
But the photos are not of Prague.
No, they are photos of Paris.
Did the Paul Depuis of the 19th century, the originator of the franchise I’m guessing, feel homesick for France?
Or is this just the Paul marketing of the twenty-first century?
The cafe is busy at 0900 on a weekday morning, with tourists and locals.
A young married couple at the next table drink coffee and eat croissants while discussing their tourist plans for the day.
They are dressed nicely, for a museum or a gallery, not for a long walk through the park or along the Vltava River in the rain.
Across the room, an attractive woman in her fifties sits alone looking at the distant ceiling.
No phone, no book, just lost in thought.
A man’s jacket hangs on a chair across from her.
Indeed, he has come and gone a couple of times in the last ten minutes.
Each time he leaves, the woman looks back towards the ceiling and waits patiently.
She seems at peace, perhaps even grateful for the man’s absence.
Finally, he arrives again carrying a small box sealed with a ribbon.
She gives a half smile, stands, and they leave together.
