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Like an oft-told fairy tale. Like spritely characters reborn from childhood memory as faint, ghostly outlines. Like fancy and whimsy and delight. Like Paris. High on the only hilltop in Paris, the artist colony of Montmarte hides a quiet restaurant named “Poulbot.” The front window, itself covered with fanciful figures from some unknown fantasy, frames another scene - illustrates another tale - playing out inside the tiny café. Under the glow of soft light, patrons speak in low tones, telling their stories on a gentle stage set with lace curtains gracing a wooden door, antique pitchers suspended by hooks, and prized photography dimly illuminated.
Outside the window on the day we found Poulbot, the air was cold, the sky was threatening. But, somehow, everything seemed all right. The light was right. The colors were right. The story was right.
Like an oft-told fairy tale. Like spritely characters reborn from childhood memory as faint, ghostly outlines. Like fancy and whimsy and delight. Like Paris. High on the only hilltop in Paris, the artist colony of Montmarte hides a quiet restaurant named “Poulbot.” The front window, itself covered with fanciful figures from some unknown fantasy, frames another scene - illustrates another tale - playing out inside the tiny café. Under the glow of soft light, patrons speak in low tones, telling their stories on a gentle stage set with lace curtains gracing a wooden door, antique pitchers suspended by hooks, and prized photography dimly illuminated.
Outside the window on the day we found Poulbot, the air was cold, the sky was threatening. But, somehow, everything seemed all right. The light was right. The colors were right. The story was right.