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L’épicerie, Rennes. I order a tea by its name. Casablanca. It is served to me in a muslin bag and is so delicious that as I pack up to leave I hide it in my camera bag. Green tea with mint and bergamot.

“I sit in the corner at an old wodden table numbered 42. The walls look like they might have had wallpaper at one point but now it is a splatter of peeling subduded grey and tan paint. Exposed lightbulbs hang from the ceiling and jazz music whispers in form the backroom to be drowned out in a sea of voices and the noises that only a café can produce. My saucer is chipped and in no way matches the cup, but yet, perhaps that is how they match.” - sketchbook entry.
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