By Paul Topping

So it’s early in the morning, and we're drinking coffee in this Parisian square dating back to 1612. Early is relative; it’s ten thirty in the morning, Jezzabel, the wife is not an early morning person.

Despite our many visits to Paris, this Jewish Quarter in Marais and more so the Place Des Vosges, has escaped us. Thanks to friends who brought us here yesterday, we have found our “go to” Paris location. The identical terraces of stately mansions, in red and white brick around the square, are four stories high buildings. It still has a wow factor, fronted by a cobble street and wrapped around a small park.  

Its history dates back to 1615 and was renamed in 1799 in honour of Louis 8th. We are sitting in the 1807 Ma Bourgogne restaurant and having eggs, orange juice and strong coffee for two. It’s 63 euros, but it’s an experience. The bar inside sets the age of the place, not the furniture out front. Lovely old bar, service is fast and "the living is easy". Opposite the coffee stop is a quaint ladies' hat shop of not more than four square meters, with most products displayed out onto the pavement. So many colours on display. The lady in charge has to regularly come out and pick up the fallen hats in the mild wind.

We had previously sat in the Carette restaurant (built in the 1920s), but we left as it was packed with tight table seating. We could have joined the intimate conversation of the three tables around us, but the space is so tight. It’s also loud, with the French catching up with each other. Sadly, I never learned their language. In fact, worse than that, my parents were very negative about the French. Their stories told me about a nation of chefs who were badly led in WW2. Bailed out by British and American forces. Mr Trump would say it was the Americans who won WW2. It is a bit late now for me to "parle Français", especially considering I lived in Sri Lanka for over twenty years and never felt the need to speak the local language. I even know many Sri Lankans who don’t speak the national language. 

The inner park is not a perfect square shape from my pacing it out. With many trees in straight lines for shade, plus two identical fountains, it’s a cool place to hang out. A Statue of Louis the 8th is in the centre of the park. Ironically posed in a victorious Roman-style leadership. In reality, he was no leader and loved horses more than people. He died in his thirties. The many benches are filled by tourists, sun bathers, no doubt regulars, and some who have nowhere else to go.

To circumnavigate the actual square is a real eye-opener. It took me twenty minutes of window shopping to do one side, given the amazing art displayed and the varying quirky shop windows. The square has many restaurants and some offices; if there are apartments above, they must be magical, with high windows and ceilings. Sad on my walk to see the homeless in little tents in the alleyways. I even step around a man who is rather asleep, drunk or dead in the walkway in front of the restaurant. What would u do next? I've had and written about an amazing personal experience with Good Samaritans. In this case, reporting it to the manager of the establishment is my limited action. 

Jezzabel, my shopaholic wife, has gone outside the square, as there are many amazing shops there. I walk the square many times and just keep finding more to look at. Artwork, eye-catching modern funky statues and architecture.

As I walk past my newfound French restaurant a few times, I’m invited back in. Feeling slightly humbled with little French, I thank them but look forward to something different and with a decent toilet. Historically, this has been a big challenge for the French. In a back street, I find a serious all white funky café where I can sit on white furniture with white floors and walls. I write a bit. Most customers have takeaway coffee. I have the inner café to myself. An elegant, tall Asian lady sits with coffee close by. The little white table wobbles and her coffee hits the white floor, the wall and her with gusto. Her face shows deep shock. The waiter and I hurriedly assisted.

Finally, I find the shopaholic wife and realise women will buy what they want and expect their men to handle the logistics. See my story on a month in Morocco, Jezzabel buying a  dozen tagines.

I’m looking forward to returning to the square next year and watching the world go by.