“The knife in the pocket and other capital pleasures.”

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There is a small collection that I like very much, it is the book “La première gorgée de bière et autres plaisirs minuscules” (The first sip of beer and other tiny pleasures) by Philippe Delerm, a kind of ode to the small pleasures of life: the first sip of beer, having a knife in your pocket, going to the bakery to get a croissant on Sunday morning, etc… it inspired me these two small texts on the life of the traveler. The first one is about the pocket knife, this faithful companion of the traveler. The second one, this improbable croissant found at the end of the world. I hope to write more of these little texts if you like… so don’t hesitate to comment.

“The knife in the pocket”
Philippe Delerm’s knife is an Opinel. A number 6, he specifies. Or a Laguiole. It serves no purpose, or rather, it serves to remember the past. To remember this “bucolic grandfather with a white moustache” as he says. It is just the smell of a bygone era, that of the France of yesteryear. Philippe’s knife is nostalgic. It has become useless. But not the traveler’s, no, quite the contrary. It is essential to him, vital even. He uses it to cut cheese, to slice pineapple, or even to cut a branch to make a small shelter with a tarp. He keeps it permanently in his pocket, ready to be used at any time. I found mine on the bank of the Zambezi River, not far from the Victoria Falls, more than 15 years ago. The area, I knew, was infested with crocodiles. And I saw it. It was there, on the ground, on the bank. Its red handle seemed to be calling me. Was it a bait set by an anthropophagous crocodile? Or was it the knife that some poor biped had desperately tried to pull out before being snatched by a saurian carnivore? I scanned the water for any sign of one of these devious creatures and then went to pick it up. It never left me. It is neither an Opinel nor a Laguiole. It’s a switchblade. Almost a thug’s knife. Its wide blade of hardened steel, made in Germany and therefore solid, is almost incongruous when I take it out to cut a piece of bread. In the evening, before going to bed, I put it near me, always in the same place. It is a derisory protection in case of aggression, man or beast, but it reassures me. In the city, I often have to think about leaving it for a moment at the bottom of my bags. It would not pass the security checkpoints. But as soon as I come back in the desert or in the bush, it finds its place at the bottom of my pocket. Ready to serve.

“The croissant of the sidewalk
Philippe’s croissant is the pleasure of taking a croissant from the paper bag given to you by the baker on your way home. It’s warm, its dough is soft. Philippe’s croissant is that little selfish pleasure of Sunday morning.
The traveler’s croissant is a feast. You have to look for it, find it, hope for it. It is rare and therefore precious. When you arrive in a new city, you scan the stores and bakeries. Will it be there? Will we see a sign claiming to be a “French bakery” in one way or another? Or French Baker? When, joyfully, we see a sign announcing the delight, we stop the bike, just in front of the promising stall and almost begging, we ask the fateful question: “Do you have croissant? “. In Islamabad, yes, there are butter, chocolate and almond croissants. We even have the choice. But the first one, it will be a simple butter croissant. Of course. Accompanied by a coffee. Obligatorily. It does not remain any more that to settle down to the terrace. The wait is delicious, yet agonizing: will it be good? Will its dough be warm and soft like Philippe’s croissant? Or on the contrary, dry and cold, a pale copy of our bakers’ croissants in floured undershirts? With an anxious eye, we scrutinize the plate that the waiter is already bringing. We delicately seize the object of our greed. We feel it. The hot dough sinks gently under the pressure of the thumb and the index finger. With the other hand, we tear off a small piece. The smallest possible. Just to taste it. You don’t want to take too much at a time. Little bit by little bit, in order to make it last. Oh ecstasy, it is similar to that of our old baker. Time stops then. All that remains is to taste it, to savor it. Thinking of the Sunday morning croissant. Philippe’s croissant. But no, the traveler’s croissant is infinitely better. It is so rare.