Who are these people?

The couple. Strangers. They just sat down at the far end of my table. In a restaurant. In the airport terminal. At Beauvais. In France. A week ago today. I like that. In Europe. In many restaurants. We share tables. With strangers. Sometimes, we talk. Other times we ignore each other. Depends. On the mood. On the people. Sort of like picnic tables. We're all in this together. Fellow travelers. I sense camaraderie. They are speaking French. No English. So I continue writing. About what I'm seeing. Experiencing. I like to observe. Little things. An Asian couple. Sitting at the next table. Dining on beverage and food taken from their knapsacks. Cheaper than ordering from the restaurant menu. The guy at my table is wearing a black stocking cap. The kind I'd wear in Minnesota on chilly day. At the table across from me: three giggly girls. French, I think. Noticed that the guy's cap is pulled down over his forehead. To his eyebrows. I'm captivated. By the sounds. I close my eyes. To listen more acutely. Foreign tongues. Gibberish to me. Wonder if anyone suspects I'm an American. If they notice me like I notice them. Maybe they wonder what I'm scribbling. Maybe a love letter to my true love. They have no clue. That I'm writing about them. Noticing. Noticing. Noticing. When I glance up, it's to catch glimpses. Of them. At the table behind me, there's a baby. I can tell without looking. Whining. Crying. The Asian woman. A red stocking cap. With a tassle. Pulled down to her eyebrows, too. Maybe that's the French fashion. Outside the restaurant, I've spotted a fashionable woman, probably French. Walking by. High black boots. All the way to the knees. A black purse. Immense. Looks more like a saddle bag. Wearing a man's hat. A fedora. Black. With a tan ribbon. Wrapped around. Talking. On her cell phone. Maybe to her lover. I'm wondering. Who are all these people? I'd certainly like to know. --Jim Broede