WTWRN: Kensington, London

Montparnasse Cafe is a slice of Paris tucked away off of Kensington High Street, only a 5-minute walk from the Tube station (Google says 6, but I’m confident you can shave off a minute) – and it’s my go-to place to write, right now.

I typically go on Sunday afternoons so that I can start to chip away at the work week. I feel at ease just walking through the door, embraced by the sweet reedy sounds of Classic FM and mouth-watering aroma of what could only be butter-smothered pastry dough. Everyone is quiet and respectful of the space that’s filled with bistro tables-for-two, and a flora-cushioned bench in the back; it’s almost as if the quaintness of the surroundings elicits a certain kind of reverence. The bench seating is comfortable enough to stay put for 4+ hours (know from experiences), and the piping hot foamy cappuccinos and proximate outlets allow you to keep your batteries charged while you do so. If you look around – and you should – you’ll notice all the kitschy details. A corner bookshelf (that also creates an L-shaped nook for my husband’s and my favorite table to sit snugly) holds two different types of a teapots, a charcoal drawing of two bodies, and a Clydesdale figurine pulling a barrel. Maybe odd as individual objects, but together they feel like you’re in your artsy aunt’s cozy living room.

On this particular morning, I walk into Montparnasse because I’m in need of inspiration. I am approaching two writing deadlines – one is my final project for grad school, which happens to be this blog (so meta), and the other is a fiction writing contest in which one of my favorite authors is judging. As a nonfiction writer, fiction has always felt a bit out of my element and I’m looking outward for inspiration. And while Montparnasse sprinkles chocolate powder on the top of their cappuccinos as most cafes in the UK do, and they have a variety of sweeteners from honey to brown sugar to Splenda (a rare treat overseas) – the best part of the cafe is by far the people watching.

I’m on the hunt for characters for my fiction story, which I’ve decided to set in the south of France, after crashing my husband’s work conference in Monaco and then traveling to a town called Juan-les-Pins this past weekend. When we booked the trip, we had decided to splurge for a hotel with a pool and a room with a balcony, and true to my life’s plan (which is a hybrid of Murphy’s law and Alanis Morisette’s song “Ironic”) it rained the whole ~30 hours we were there. It was okay because it gave us plenty of time to borrow the hotel’s umbrella and explore. There is something eerie about beautiful seaside towns in the rain. The colors are brighter, but the abandoned buildings with cracked windows are more noticeable, like a proud older generation whose teeth are missing and discs are starting to slip, but still insist on wearing their signature fuchsia lipstick. If it was sunny, the slat-less shutters might not stand out. Walking through Juan-les-Pins in the rain was a sharp contrast to the staggering sun-drenched opulence we had seen in Monte-Carlo where they were literally building an island for shopping across from the coastline, because there was too much money to go around and not enough land.

When I flew in this past weekend, most people on my flight were there for the Cannes Film Festival. I realized it only after the woman next to me photographed her view from the window the entire flight (above the clouds and all) and I saw that she was saving everything in a folder called Cannes 2019. But even before that, there was this electric energy that was palpable. Like anything was possible. Like the next award-winning director was on this aircraft. The amount of sunglasses that were put on before we even deboarded was borderline comical. I wanted to scream, “There’s no way you’re all recognizable!” but instead I put on mine. A portly man was in the row behind me in the middle seat and couldn’t wait to get off the plane before taking a business call. His wife was a few rows ahead, also in a middle seat. She was a 6’ tall blonde, had the tiniest leather jacket swathing her even tinier bird-like shoulders, and was a fossilized forty-something. She kept smiling back at him in the aisle trying to catch his eye. He must be the more famous one, I thought, otherwise she wouldn’t be doing this. Through his tinted blue RayBans, I couldn’t see whether he saw her or not. My second thought, did she live in an Ivory Tower? Am I just applying a Harvey Weinstein scenario to a one that does not exist?

I had two out of three of my characters. But it’s not going to be what you think it is, because in my stories the women can’t be that easily typecast. I’ll give you a little bit of a hint: it’s going to be about relationship dynamics and the mystery of what happens behind closed doors at the Fairmont Monte-Carlo.

At Montparnasse, I look up and watch the owner’s daughter (have surmised this is the relationship, but not 100% sure) who works here, whose name I haven’t yet asked. I internally chastise myself for being rude but then realize if I knew her name, I would feel weird about naming her myself. “Maddie” is polite but not overly friendly, quick on her feet, and slaloms from French to English and back again when talking to customers and fellow baristas. She has sharp brown eyes and dark brown hair, but the ends are lighter where her highlights have grown out telling me she cares about appearance but isn’t overly vain.

She’s also the inspiration for my final character: Maddie, an employee at the Fairmont hotel in Monaco.

To get in the zone, I put on my latest Lit Playlist for May. I start to write, but can’t decide which opening line I want to go with – so keep them both.

The “Do Not Disturb” sign had been up for a week and we’d been delivering room service daily. Their room must be filthy. I made a mental note to find out their check-out date and call in sick that day.”

I walked by room 6050, the “Do Not Disturb” sign still on their door. I paused briefly to listen for any sound of life. Still nothing.

Hopefully I’ll have more of an outline to share in next month’s iteration of “Where to Write, Right Now” when I explore Southwark. In the meantime, you get rewarded with all of the relevant dets for Montparnasse. Think of it as my version of the chocolate dusting on top of the froth.

Phone number: +44 20 7376 2212
Address: 22 Thackeray Street, W8 5ET
Hours: 8 a.m. - 5 p.m.

Nearest Tube: Kensington High Street (.3 miles)
WiFi: Strong
Seating: Comfortable, typically available
Alternative milks: Yes, soy
Outlets: Yes
Seating: Comfy benches in the back for privacy -- your screen won’t be stared at; also outdoor seating… limited WiFi connection.
Bathroom: Yes
Noise level: Quiet
Instagrammable? Very

Where to write

WTWRN: Kensington, London