Another spring day, 70 degrees and sunny. You envision the Marais, jump on the metro, emerge into the sunshine again and cross the bridge. There is the fantastic and beautiful museum of contemporary photography – you haven’t even been yet. In fact, you’d forgotten about it. The kids are out on vacation next week. You’ve joined three book clubs. You cross Rivoli and take pretty back streets. Step lightly into some shops feeling like stepping into someone’s home, the stores small and intimate, hushed. You have a conversation about the linen drapes. Washed out colors appealing, the feel, the way they hang. You make photos and walk around the shop imagining the drapes catching the breeze from the windows in your new apartment. You meet another American. She is visiting Paris. You live here? Wow. That’s impossible! You shrug and say, “it’s not always like this.” It isn’t, but that’s not entirely true either. You haven’t finished planning the vacation to Brittany. You wonder how to drive from Deuville to St. Malo. You’ve got to schedule a formal event for an organization you belong to, you can’t forget. You haven’t eaten all day. You must remember to not run out without eating or drinking anything. The little side street looks inviting, a handwritten sign, the bistro light and airy thru the window. Family is coming in this Sunday then you are all getting on a train to Normandy. Who is taking care of the dog? Your husband will be in Kiev. You are the only one here, but in a moment, the place will be full of people and the whir of conversation and the roasted potatoes in front of you are delicious.