The morning is beautiful; the view from the skylight in my garret is of a huge blue sky, with a cool breeze and the sounds of the day beginning. Joyce is showering; we will walk out to the boulangerie for a croissant and espresso soon. I have unpacked my nine scarves and three pairs of shoes and four books and my little sack of chargers, and I am settled into my triangular mouse-hole at the top of the stairs.
It’s like I’m eight miles high…
We meet the mighty Jean Power at noon today, at a train stop, and then… ? Espace Dali, most certainly. Cafe Paulbot? Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, perhaps, at St. Chappelle? The bottles of champagne and rounds of Comte in our fridge?
I have not yet seen Bryan Ferry. But I do not rule it out.