so the red beret and me entered the warm indoors of the celebrated cafe. this was in the heart of montmatre on a chilly winter's day. this cafe, mentioned in a post last year or so, is the fabulous setting of amelie poulin's supposed destiny. it is stage ground of many a fascinating meeting, a quick glance over the top of a menu, a fleeting smile across the room and, as she passes, 'un cafe, s'il vous plait.'
it is the bistro terminal of amelie's blooming destiny. i could almost hear yann tiersen's piano in the background, infused in the steaming coffee and the clatter of utensils.
i sat in one of the booths and glanced around me. she'd been here. amelie poulin herself. little wise french child, girl-server, good-doer, pebble-skipper with a cheeky smile, almost knowing. like the mona lisa, but naughty. and not frozen in a picture frame. amelie is alive and well.