I know, I said I didn’t take any pcitures. That is, I didn’t take any except for the Catacombes. I totally got pictures of the Catacombes. Continue reading
I’m in Paris, in a charmingly curious little hotel near Notre Dame and l’Ile de St Louis.
We flew in this morning, from Nice, where I met my parents – whom I hadn’t seen since December – and my brother and a lovely family who put us up for five days. (Five days which went entirely too quickly.) They have a beautiful, rambling 17th century farm house – all corridors and white plaster – with an incredible garden, twenty minutes walk from the beach.
They fed us more foie gras and cheese than we could eat, wine more amazing than I know how to appreciate, and ran around in circles with us. We tagged with the family – a gallery opening (a Sosnos exhibition, and met the man himself) to which the… Continue reading
My brother has a “phobia” of looking like a foreigner. (He told me so himself.)
Now, I can almost understand. I hate looking like a tourist. I get self-conscious with my accent echoing in my own ears and all the wrong currencies falling out of my pockets. I feel single-handedly responsible for over-turning all the stereotypes about loud Americans. I refuse to patronise international chains and I’ve been known to duck into a doorway to surreptitiously peer at the directions that I’ve discretely scrawled on my hand. I don’t carry a guide-book in public. (Actually, I don’t carry one at all.) I pride myself on not standing out too painfully: I can, and enjoy, eating Continue reading