Bliss continues. Today, Monday, I asked Lynn if we’d ever had a big fight. In our nearly sixty years of friendship, there have been times we disagreed, but never over something big. We are very different in many ways — she a non-practicing Catholic, long-married mother of five, grandmother of eight, a French linguist and academic who almost never reads nonfiction and especially memoir. I different in all regards. And yet we enjoy so many of the same things. We love to eat, drink, walk, talk. Our politics are identical, and of course have been much discussed this trip, as we process even more madness in the States and the relief of Orban’s defeat. We laugh a lot at the same things, and make each other laugh, a lot. We always have.

Today, Monday, most Paris museums are closed, but the Banksy museum was open so we went there. We got on the #29 bus that stops right outside our door and does a circuitous tour through the heart of Paris, ending up at the Opéra, near the museum. I adore the busses in Paris if you have time, a perfect way to see the city and feel like a local.

The museum is exceptional — well laid out, reproductions of his images sprayed on concrete walls throughout, with his powerful, bitterly angry, yet sometimes witty and even laugh-out-loud anti-capitalist messages. He’s a skilled painter as well as a graffiti artist and social justice warrior. Admirable. On the way out, you can buy Banksy fridge magnets and shot glasses and coasters. Lynn said, “Do you think he’s making fun of us?” No question, he is.

Because Lynn and I are deep and also shallow, after a terrific canard à l’orange for lunch at a nearby bistro, we Googled “nearest Monoprix,” our favourite store, where I bought a 10-euro t-shirt with “Bookstore, 12 Rue des Écoles” on the front. Love my souvenir. We walked down to the Louvre, went into the stately Palais Royale gardens opposite, and pounced on two seats by the fountain, where we sat chatting and people watching for an hour while the sun briefly came out.

A long walk along the Rue de Rivoli (yesterday we walked 10 k. again, today only 7) and the metro home. We stopped at a boulanger artisan to buy dessert treats and a baguette warm from the oven. I tore off a hunk and moaned with pleasure. By the time we left, there was a lineup out the door; it was 5.05, and Parisians were on their way home.

Sunday, another day of iffy weather but it also did not rain. As we ate breakfast, I said to Lynn, weird, lots of people are running by out there. And then, “It’s the marathon!” It was the day of the Paris marathon, with 23,000 runners and 60,000 participants, and part of the route was on a nearby street we could see from our window. So we watched them pour by as we drank our coffee, little knowing we would see them again, and again, wherever we were that day.

We got the metro across town to the Musée d’Art Moderne to see the exhibit on Lee Miller, a groundbreaking American photographer who’s finally getting her due. An amazing woman, born in Poughkeepsie in 1907, beautiful, courageous, and far ahead of her time, part of the avant garde in Paris from the twenties on, lovers with artists including Man Ray, at first a model and eventually a photo-journalist who insisted on staying in Paris during the occupation and entered Dachau and Buchenwald just after their liberation. She was so devastated by what she saw during the war that she stopped photographing, married one of her longtime lovers, a Brit, had a son, and became a gourmet cook. An amazing life.

The marathon was running right by the museum door, so it was hard to get around, but we found a café for lunch, convinced it would be pretty bad because the ‘hood was so crowded and chaotic and touristy. We each had a simple croque monsieur which was, of course, wonderful. We listened to our waiter talking with the British couple at the next table; Lynn complimented him on his English, and they chatted like old friends. He was a handsome man, originally from Georgia, wearing a wooden bowtie. Memorable.

And then because she and I are deep and also shallow, we headed to Galeries Lafayette, which was having one of their famous sales. The metro was jam-packed with people leaving after viewing the marathon, many with handmade signs of encouragement, and with the runners themselves. The store was a zoo. Lynn bought me a lipstick for my birthday and we got out of there. I like to have her advice on things like that; she has a French eye.

Home via our local grocery store. I suggested we buy something ready-made to make life easy, and Lynn looked at me as if I’d suggested eating at McDonalds. She made chicken breasts with grilled leeks. Thank you, lord. And tonight we’re having them again, with rice, the rest of our lovely 10-euro bottle of Crozes-Hermitage — thank you, lord — and the special treat desserts, a super-rich lemon tart and a chocolate tart shaped like a coffee bean.

She leaves our rental early tomorrow to take the train back to Montpellier. I will clean the place and meet our hostess here at 11; my plane to Malaga isn’t until 4 so she’s allowing me to leave my bag here for a bit. I’ll go out for lunch and get to Orly airport early. I will miss my companion more than I can say. But I’m looking forward to getting to know Anita, my Finnish friend, again. We have not met for twenty years.

If you want a beautiful, conveniently set-up two-bedroom apartment in the 12th arrondissement, get in touch. I’d be happy to pass on the contact info.

Phase two, southern Spain, begins demain. Arriba y adelante!

Below: the marathon by our apartment. Lee Miller: shot of Joseph Cornell, who I never imagined to have once been young and beautiful. Shot entitled “Saul Steinberg fights with the garden hose in a manner all his own,” 1952. Galeries Lafayette, the cathedral of consumption. Banksy. One of my favourite sights, my friend perusing a menu. The fountain and the grounds at the Palais Royale, a true oasis.