It’s Saturday March 25 and your faithful correspondent has had ten hours of sleep and a huge breakfast in the hotel, with chunks of the most delicious bread in the world, a lot of coffee and the French television news – there’s a vital election going on here. And hooray, Trump goes down to one more defeat. The sun is shining tentatively, and the world awaits. I’m off soon to meet Lynn, my best friend for fifty years – is that possible? – at the train station, and we’ll go to the apartment she has rented for us in the Bastille. Is this real? Am I really here? One minute I’m in my kitchen looking at sparrows, the next, in this ancient city devouring fresh crusty bread and reading “L’Officiel des Spectacles,” an 170 page booklet of everything that’s on in Paris THIS WEEK.
On my list: seeing friends, the Fondation Vuitton museum, the Vermeer exhibition at the Louvre, several other museums, and a shop or two. A meal or two. A certain amount of pleasure.
This, however, taken Friday afternoon in the conservatory at Allen Gardens, is who I’ve left behind:
