A candid smartphone photo from inside a cozy Parisian café on a rainy morning, view from a corner table looking out a window with raindrops streaking down the glass, a half-finished black coffee on a worn wooden table, an open notebook with handwritten lists and sketches next to it, soft natural lighting, authentic and slightly imperfect composition
A spontaneous shot of a hand holding a pen, writing in a travel notebook on a café table, with a blurred background of other patrons and a coffee cup in the foreground, capturing the quiet planning moment, natural morning light, realistic smartphone photo quality with slight motion blur
An authentic street-level view through a café window in Paris, showing pedestrians with umbrellas walking past on a wet sidewalk, captured through rain-streaked glass, slightly blurred and imperfect as if taken quickly with a phone, early morning light filtering through gray clouds

Rainy morning coffee and the art of planning

It's 11:20 and I'm sitting in a small café two blocks from my hotel, watching raindrops race down the window while nursing my second cup of coffee. The café is cozy, with worn wooden tables and just enough patrons to create a gentle background murmur without feeling crowded. Perfect for a rainy Tuesday morning.

I arrived precisely when they opened at 9:00, beating the mid-morning rush and securing this corner table by the window. The barista raised an eyebrow when I ordered my coffee black—apparently, that's not how most tourists take their coffee here. But I've found it's the best way to truly taste the differences between coffee around the world. This Parisian brew is rich but lacks the intensity I'm accustomed to. Still, it's comforting on a day like this.

The rain started around 7:30 this morning, a light patter against my hotel window that made it tempting to stay in bed. But day 28 of 500 feels too early to be sleeping in, so I was up and out by 8:45, armed with my small notebook and raincoat.

Yesterday's eight-hour Louvre marathon has left my feet slightly sore and my mind still processing the wealth of art and history. Museum fatigue is real—there's only so much beauty and significance the human brain can process before it starts to shut down. By the time I left yesterday evening, I was barely registering the masterpieces around me.

Planning in the rain

This morning feels perfect for planning rather than doing. The cool air (12°C according to my phone) and steady drizzle outside have created an atmosphere conducive to reflection rather than exploration.

I've spread my notebook open on the table, making lists and sketching out the next few days. According to the waiter I spoke with yesterday, there's a transportation strike planned for Thursday that might affect metros, buses, and even some restaurants. It's worth planning around that.

For today, once the rain eases up, I'm thinking of heading to Montmartre and the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. The forecast suggests the rain should taper off by early afternoon. Tomorrow looks like a good day for the Eiffel Tower visit, preferably around sunset if the clouds cooperate.

I've also jotted down notes about the upcoming events this weekend—the Fête des Puces at the Saint-Ouen flea market on Thursday sounds interesting, and I might check out the Paris Rooftop Days starting Friday if the weather improves. The Whisky Live Paris event this weekend is tempting too, though I'm not much of a whisky drinker.

Reflections on Paris so far

Three days into my Paris stay, and I'm still adjusting to the scale of this city after the compact charm of Bruges. The transition from a medieval town to a sprawling metropolis has been jarring in some ways, exhilarating in others.

What strikes me most about Paris is the juxtaposition of grandeur and intimacy. The sweeping boulevards and monumental architecture coexist with narrow side streets and tiny cafés like this one. Yesterday at the Louvre, I spent nearly 30 minutes with a single Vermeer painting, watching how different visitors approached it—some pausing briefly before moving on, others lingering, contemplating, connecting.

I've noticed myself slowing down, becoming more deliberate in my choices. Perhaps it's the natural evolution of long-term travel, or maybe it's Paris itself teaching me to savor rather than consume. Either way, I'm grateful for the lesson.

The rain is beginning to ease slightly. I can see patches of lighter gray in the clouds. Perhaps by the time I finish this third cup of coffee (yes, I know, but it's that kind of morning), the weather will have cleared enough for me to venture toward Montmartre.

For now, though, I'm content to sit here, watching Parisians hurry past under umbrellas, planning my next move while appreciating this moment of stillness in a journey that will span 500 days.

472 days to go. The adventure continues, rain or shine.