My landlord asked me a practical question: “Would you like a table basse in the apartment?” In French, table basse simply means low table. It is a beautifully literal phrase. A table … that is low. I said yes. Two days later, he appeared again, this time with another offer: “Perhaps you would also like a second table basse?” At this point, I began to suspect that somewhere in the depths of Paris he possesses a quiet warehouse of low tables waiting for homes. The conversation made me think about low tables. In English we do sometimes say low table, but mostly we say coffee table. Once I noticed that phrase, it became oddly mysterious to me. Why coffee? It originated in the twentieth century. As living rooms became more informal, people began sitting on lower sofas and chairs rather than upright Victorian furniture. A lower table was a better fit for the new posture of relaxation. These tables were meant to hold the small things of conversations: cups, ashtrays, newspapers, perhaps a plate of biscuits, and coffee during conversation. So, the table was named for what happened around it. Which is a lovely idea when you think about it. And then came the coffee table book. These books are large and glossy, with lots of photographs. They sit on the table waiting for someone to open them while visiting. The phrase itself became popular in the 1960s when publishers realized that beautiful, over-sized books, on art, travel, photography, architecture, and so on, were perfect objects to leave on the living room table. Beautiful books that start conversations. Which is slightly ironic, because people sometimes say a coffee table book is a book without a story, just photos. But that isn’t really true. There are plenty of stories: one, or more, in every photo. As for my apartment, I now suspect that if I stay here long enough my landlord may eventually offer me an entire family of tables basses: a little parliament of low tables gathered in the living room. If that happens, I will of course need more coffee table books. After all, every table deserves a story.
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Sunday, 8 March 2026
Low tables, high thoughts
Thursday, 5 March 2026
The man who pulls a train of small stories
Yesterday, in Paris, I saw him again. A man pulling a train of toy vehicles along the pavement. They rattled softly against the pavement as he walked. The toy vehicles stretched along the pavement like a cheerful little parade that had forgotten its band. He was not pulling one toy truck or two, but a long, vibrant convoy of little cement mixers, tractors, garbage trucks, and miniature cars, all linked together with string like a child’s improvised railway. Each vehicle carried something: a teddy bear, a doll, a small flag, or a plastic animal, like a scene from the movie, Toy Story. People noticed immediately. Children stopped. A woman with a stroller laughed. A man on a bicycle slowed down to watch the procession pass. The man himself seemed used to the attention. He smiled, nodding when people pointed or asked questions. I had seen him once before, a week earlier, from the window of a restaurant on the same street. At first, I thought it might be some sort of delivery system, or a performance, or perhaps a Parisian protest. He carried no sign explaining what it meant. Perhaps it does not mean anything. Yesterday, I realized that, perhaps, he was just walking. And the train was just following. Or perhaps each vehicle carries its own little story. I began to imagine them. The red truck near the front might belong to a child who insisted on sleeping with it beside the pillow every night. The cement mixer with the American flag could have crossed an ocean in someone’s suitcase, as one small piece of home carried to Paris. A green tractor might have been rescued from a flea market box where all the wheels were missing from its companions. The doll sitting upright in the yellow lorry might once have belonged to someone who outgrew it but could never quite throw it away. One by one, the vehicles could have arrived in this man’s life like passengers waiting for a train: abandoned toys, forgotten toys, toys found on sidewalks or given by friends, or handed over by children who had simply grown older. Perhaps he repaired them. Perhaps he adopted them. Perhaps he simply understood that small things deserve another journey. That is what the convoy looked like to me: not a collection of toys, but a travelling museum of childhood. A procession of memories rolling slowly through the streets of Paris. Children watched the procession pass with the serious concentration children give to unusual things. Adults smiled in a way adults rarely smile at strangers anymore. And the man kept walking, pulling the train gently behind him, as if he were leading a group of tiny travellers who trusted him to show them the world. Paris is full of grand spectacles, like the Eiffel Tower lighting up at night, the wide avenues, the museums, and the famous cafés. Sometimes, the most magical sight is a man on an ordinary street pulling a train of small stories behind him. If you see him one day, stop for a moment. Look closely at the vehicles. You might recognize one of them. It might remind you of a toy you once loved, or a childhood afternoon you had forgotten, or a small object that once seemed as important as the entire world. And if that happens, then perhaps the train has done exactly what it was meant to do. It has delivered something back to you … a Parisian parade of pure joy.
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Low tables, high thoughts
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