Four figures came waffling down the street with their dim lit cigarettes lighting the way. They aren’t the only curious fellows you see floating around Cafe de Port in Brignogan. Sprawled on the jet red chairs are two American tourists, drawling loudly. Behind me is an elderly couple, and just to their left, a group of sorority girls.
Soft music chimes over the tiny speakers inside the bar. Outside the sound of voices, chinking glasses and dragging chairs along the stone tiled floor dominate the darkness. Beer glasses stand in clumps on the cheap blue and white striped table tops, which are far too few to accommodate all the occupants.
Cafe de Port is not astute in stature. The walls are a faded salmon pink, with ocean blue wooden shutters. Balanced precariously on the window sills are red geraniums sprouting out of the terracotta flower pots. The air is thick and sweet with smoke and laughter.
The nasal vowels of French sticks in the air, soaking up every inch of the night sky. It almost hums. Inside, there is a billiard table near the bathroom and a large 90’s chic mural. Dogs weave in and out of chairs, ducking beneath tables for a friendly hand or a scrap of food. I don’t know which.
I haven’ to the bar inside yet because the French is thick in this region. English means nothing. But I can catch a glimpse of a hooker red glow in the interior, with pictures scantily plastered on the walls.
There are a few more curious faces lounging at the cafe: a tall fellow with a dark grey beard and a dark tan, an adolescent group of boys smoking sheepishly in the darkness. Everyone seems to be sporting a scarf. Some even drift in with tracksuits and sportswear.
Either way – this is the kind of place to watch the comings and goings of life. It is all wonderfully strange and bohemian. I do not understand a word of French, which has freed up my other senses to wonderment. The language is almost flowery if I listen to it, and very sexy. I think all French people speak with an air of confidence and allure.