Waiting for our wash. As we left, a lovely specimen of Parisian womanhood was kneeling on the floor of the laundromat sniffing pants. Vive le France.
Last night S. and I walked around the Latin Quarter and St.-Germain des Pres with D., my photographer friend from Boston, during the annual Night of Music. At the end I added a Sancerre to my eau de vie and was exhausted and crazy and overwhelmed. D. was a crazy as he was in Boston, veering around the half-closed streets like a psychotic Shriner. Paris looks exactly like you think it would, with its cream-coloured apartment blocks with their dormered, blue-grey slate rooves. Everything is Hunchback of Notre Dame or fin de siécle or Picasso and Modigliani.