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* Walking up avenue Benjamin Franklin from Passy, the dark stone buildings towering over the sidewalks, the chill is cutting through my light black wrap, I’m only half awake, and I start to feel I’ve miscalculated. Then the sky opens onto the Trocadero and there is the Eiffel tower framed in this misty Thursday morning light, and even the trinket shops behind me jingling open their carts, and the few tourists heaving up the steps can’t keep me from saying out loud, “amazing…” and I forget the cold and forget what I was thinking and make this picture.

* The Sunday market on rue Raspail is all organic and it runs from 9am to 3pm. I head there around 11 and slowly start my way up the center looking at all the organic chickens and the cheese stands, but I’m scared of raw cheese, so I never buy there, and then there are the stands around the fountain selling expensive cutting boards made of olive wood and the man who sells the vegetable shaver and is often giving demonstrations to a few people standing watching him shave zucchinis. I try a new stall for no reason except it’s closer and today I’m by myself and I’ll have a bunch of oranges to carry back to juice in the mornings. It’s sunny out. There are dogs. And three year olds in prams. And old ladies with roller carts. The girls in the new stall are busy. I fill several baskets with long celery stalks, green beans, peas, small red apples, an entire basket of oranges. As I pass, the latke guy is talking to customers as he flips the oniony galettes and the line in front of his stall continues off the pavement.

* Four things are running through my head and at the fifth, I collide with one of those low black poles that line the side of the sidewalks and I am knocked back into the present and that has taught me a lesson – to s l o w down my street trot and to not daydream so much while walking.

* Have you ever had absolutely no interest in a topic then taken a tour anyway? The Musee Cernuschi has a famed collection of Asian art which is not my thing at all, until last week when I found myself mesmerized by the Tao tie’s and the Ming qi terra cotta’s as I madly jotted notes which seemed full of the secrets of history and life – the physical hardness of jade symbolized the difficulty of life but the effort it took to smooth it engaged the five senses, take your questions to the oracles and the way the wood cracks the Chinese characters will display your answers, the boddhisattva offers the opportunity to mankind to be enlightened in the here and now, in the Buddhist mind, the realization that nothing is permanent, like the colors flowing in the ceramics, the nature of our relationships is always changing and to accept this, one may find peace. Stuff like that. It was magical and now I want to go back and see that giant Buddha that fills one room, it’s 2 stories high and it looks pretty pleased with its inner self…

* Skye hasn’t had a real walk all day, so reluctantly I leash her up and we walk down the street to get the metro to go pick up the girls. She is easy to bring, but I don’t love the idea of dragging along what’s essentially a big mop that can potentially pick up all the dirt and grime of the subterranean floor of Paris. I know, it’s my issue. However, we jump on the #10 and it’s crowded for some reason, and I’m standing there and Skye is looking up at me with her big brown eyes surrounded by white fluffy fur, and someone gets on the train and scowls at my dog and the lady beside me scowls at the scowling man and again I find myself caught between the French love of dogs and the French dislike of disorder…

* I’m running down my street over to rue du Sevres and I”m super proud of myself because I’m heading to book club and I’ve read the book! Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” and it’s a lovely evening and the sitter is with the girls and I have a night of socializing before me, and I’m heading to an apartment in the 16th and it all seems kinda great and then because I’m daydreaming again, I almost knock over a man in a black drapey coat, big black glasses, white hair, and in a few minutes, I realize it must have been Karl Lagerfeld and now I wonder if he has read the book too… or what he even thinks of Hemingway and all those declarative sentences, because you never know…

*  We’re sitting on the terrace of Deux Maggots, the sun is in my eyes, though I can still see the outline of the eglise St. Germain des Pres across the plaza and sense the waiters passing my chair every few minutes… three hours later, an omelet nature, a cafe creme, the sun is higher in the sky, my leg needs to stretch, I’m saying something but watching a woman write in her book on her small round table, the pen moving across the page…