I’ve been to Paris a few times now. I’ve lost count of how many. But enough to not need to climb the Eiffel Tower again. Enough to not need to see the Mona Lisa again. Enough to not need to eat a crepe again. Enough to have favourite coffee shop.

The first time I visited Fragments, I had to wait for a seat to become available. I grabbed a coffee to go and a spot on the sidewalk to wait. The notes of caramel and nuts in my flat white were as delicious as the notes of music coming from the big box speakers on the floor.

I finished that cup at a table next to the bar. And before I ordered another, I had fallen in love. As one does in Paris.

It’s not that the coffee was excellent. Which it was. It’s not that the service was thoughtful. Which it was. It’s not that the interior was considered. Which it was. I fell in love with Fragments for the very same reason I fell in love with my wife. She was a young lady with an old soul.

Fragments is no longer around. But I’m grateful for the brief time we had together. Of all the coffeeshops I’ve been to, she will forever be my one true love. Trying to capture everything she was with a photograph would be like trying to capture everything my wife is with the same.

But let me try anyway.