Playing theatre reviewer this weekend: Meet Harry Brax Davis, playwright.

 https://theatrius.com/2025/02/23/harry-davis-interview-with-playwright-of-push-pull-at-central-works/

JUNE 25 Morning after blues

 Here in the new 2C terminal of Charles deGaulle airport, nothing is open yet. I have followed all of the rules in getting to the airport well in advance of departure time, and have learned intra-Europe flights have different rules and standards. In other words, I was through security in Rome in 14 minutes and through security in Paris in 8 minutes (not including the getting lost time of 20, since there are four 2 terminals - A,B,C,D).

The airport is really quiet this morning and I need a cup of coffee like the espresso from La Romita. We loved that so much we broke their machine. Fortunately, they bought a new one right away. One shot of espresso topped with decaf coffee in an American-sized coffee cup: my drink of the day. I miss our group. We bonded over D’s COVID diagnosis, E’s terrible faceplant requiring stitches in a hospital outside of Perugia, 3-hour workshops and multiple one-on-one consultations, nightly rounds of the Scopa, and lots of wine from central Italy’s Umbria region. Then, the parties on our final two nights. Such joy, such laughter, such drinking.

I can’t believe I haven’t posted in nine days and tbh, will try to write everything on the plane. We’ll see how long the battery lasts. Last night, I emerged from the Hotel Midi Montparnasse in my mint silk handkerchief dress and turquoise jewelry knowing I wouldn’t be hiding under the radar. For one night, I was the star of my own adventure. I bought new Metro tickets and rode the purple #4 from Denfert-Rochereau to Vavin, just a five minute ride but one saving me steps in my too-tight sandals. Emerging on Boulevard Montparnassee, I saw La Dome, La Coupole, and many other iconic restaurants. I had time before my 6:00 p.m. to visit the Notre Dame de Marche church across the street and as I went inside, I felt a strange rumbling. It was the RER Blue line. Every 6 minutes or so, the windows rattled and the floor shook. What a shame worshippers would be disrupted during the prayers and meditations. Many believers were inside when I walked into the nave, which had concrete pillars and looked nothing like the wonders of Italy. Still they had a wall of programs for infants, school-aged children, the 18-30 group and older adults. It felt welcoming.

Nothing could have prepared me for the welcoming from Bernard, the outside host at La Coupole. I’ve learned to make reservations, even if it’s only 2 hours before the time. I arrived 5 minutes early, and he asked me where I’d like to sit. I confirmed lots of smoking would occur outside, and told him “I trust you. Let’s go inside” He proceeded to seat me in the middle, near the famous sculpture by Louis Derbre so I could enjoy it and watching people as they entered the space. Incredibly beautiful columns of light emerald green marble had trompe l’oil paintings between the bottom and the capitals. Scenes of the roaring 20’s and outside landscapes decorated the ones near me. I could see the fresh seafood on ice in one corner, an Art Deco bar behind me, and the street side off to the side.

My waiter wore the coolest sun/reading glasses and greeted me in French. I said my usual apology for speaking only a little French, but he was cool.  After discussing my love of seafood and the vin blancs on the menu, I asked him to select his favorite. A Sancerre appeared within minutes, with crusty white bread, a foil-wrapped tube, not rectangle, of fabulous butter from Normandie, and sparkling San Pellegrino.

I was worried about walking out in an hour as the servers walked at a leisurely pace, but my main course of Royal seafood on a bed of beer and wine-marinated sauerkraut arrived in a very hot plate. Skate, sea bass, salmon, and lobster arrived in a blazing-hot bowl. I took my time savoring every bite, starting with the baked salmon. A sip of water, a sip of wine, a bite of fish, and a long sigh. Thirty minutes of gustatory delight, and I was stuffed. I couldn’t believe how tender and flavorful the sauerkraut was, although the serving size must have been 2 cups. I love sauerkraut, but in a fancy restaurant? When I asked the waiter what kind of cabbage they used, he asked the chef and I received an explanation of the cooking method, not the cabbage. We had a good laugh over the typical language confusion and I learned my cabbage guess was correct:  Savoy from Normandie. Lucky guess.

Side note: when you go downstairs to use/view the gorgeous restrooms, don’t turn right. That’s where the dance band gets dressed for their show. Nice looking men.

With 30 minutes to go for show time, I looked for a taxi, then decided to return to the Metro. I’d be able to walk by one of my favorite buildings in Paris:  the Hotel DeVille. I’d have to hoof it for 3/4 of a mile, but I had on my trust Skechers GoWalk sandals, which did wreck the elegance of my outfit. So funny to be the most dressed-up person in the metro, but I had a show to get to.

Many of the stores along the Rue due Rivoli were covered in scaffolds. It looked like they were getting ready to change the signage for the Olympics. The color scheme, when applied to my Hotel De Ville, made the building look a bit too Disney for me. I wondered if there was any collaboration with the Imagineers. There was a short line outside of 38Riv, a noted jazz club two stories below the street. I wound my way down to one of the caves where French Resistance fighters plotted to find an 8 X 8 stage. Tiny seats only 18 inches off of the floor and a bar in the back made up the space. A true character introduced the show, making jokes in French about his bad English. I understood about 50% of what he said which is a 40% increase from a month ago. I sat near three Americans, two from Detroit and one from Cleveland. The Ohioan is a journalist for the Cleveland Times and he’s writing a book with his curated columns. Lucky guy, as he has to travel to complete the project. 

The band? Five French millennials experimenting with two soprano saxophones, a flute, standing bass and  too many drums kit. They were fine musicians, but with ambition comes dissonance and I had a hard time enjoying their set. Many of us were looking at our watches within 20 minutes. I give them credit, but their YouTube video suggested more traditional tunes. Only one had the swingy beat I prefer, and not a bit of funk in any of it. After, I talked for awhile with the guys, who followed me out and wanted to go have another drink. They were sweet, but my sauerkraut was started to create toxic gas and I knew I had to get walking. They said, “Thank you for your company,” and I thought to myself, I should move here. Here people gravitate toward me. It’s so cool.

Walking along the Right Bank of the Seine, I tried to get to the bridge that used to have locks on it. I wanted to get the perfect shot of Pont Neuf when the sun hit the buildings, but I kept stopping. The Conciergerie was too beautiful to omit from my pictures. I saw the Samurtaine store’s new facade and had to stop again. I powerwalked on my way to the jazz club and I powerwalked past several bridges. I knew the shot I wanted, but realized it would be full of people. The entire Pont Neuf was covered with bodies stretched out to enjoy the sunset behind the Eiffel Tower. I took a pic of them, took a shot at the Eiffel behind me, danced to the band on the bridge and thought, “Who’s got it better than me?”

15000 steps during my last day, which included a two-hour nap after wandering through the Montparnasse Cemetery. My knees ached, my head ached from too much wine, and as I drank an entire bottle of water and popped an Advil PM for my knees, I realized I had kept a similar pace as 40 years ago. I smiled and laughed and sent my family some pictures to make sure when I return home tomorrow, I’ll know this whole magical experience was real.

June 24 - Last Tango on Pont au Change

Writing in an air conditioned hotel room with a desk and refrigerator is P - O - S - H. Anyway, I should be napping but it's my last night in Paris and my trip is coming to an end. I wish I could go to two jazz concerts tonight, one on each side of the Seine. Duc de Lombards and Riv34 are on the other side of the Seine. Caveau du Huchette and Cafe de Paris V are on the left bank, but very touristy. After checking who's playing, I buy a ticket to Riv34 and think about dinner. I haven't had many fancy dinners this trip but those have been memorable. Why not just go for the top? Both La Dome and La Coupole have tables available at 5:30 p.m. and I make the reservation for the gorgeous Art Deco La Coupole. I hang the green silk outfit into the bathroom, rinse off and hope the steam will straighten the wrinkles, then settle down to think for a bit.

I love this area of Montparnasse. I feel a sense of urgency, like this is the year to split and live in Paris. But there's Archer. I can't just dump my dog on anyone and my daughter now has a dog of her own. Could I give away a dog I love so I can live my dream as a writer abroad? Do I really need a 3/2 house with a guest room that's rarely used? I might see more people if I moved. I could buy a Golden Visa and live in Italy. Rome is a bit of a shit show, however. Too busy and full of Americans. I'd never learn to speak Italian. Rouen was a great size and level of energy, but might be pretty cold in the winter. Miriam says I belong in Europe, that I can't find the culture I love in the U.S. This is true. If only I could speak French and Italian. If I'd learned Latin, it wouldn't be so hard. Maybe learning a language would keep my brain going. I could live pretty cheaply here, buy a Vespa or rent a car if I wanted to. Buy a train pass. Soak up the beauty and ignore the reality of another Biden-Trump showdown. How depressing.

***

If you had told me 40 years ago I would look forward to a complicated subway ride with a few switches, I'd have vomited. But tonight, I havae an easy commute. First, I walked to the Denfert-Rochereau metro under the beautiful wrought iron sign. I took the purple 4 train three stops, to Vavin. I'm so good at this now that I'm 20 minutes early for my reservation.  I can see the famous sculpture called La Terre by Louis Derbre. My dress blends perfectly and I wonder if I can get a selfie in without looking like a tourist.

No chance. My waiter arrives, and I savor just looking at the menu. So many fruits de mer to choose from. The seafood arrives from the coast every day.  I choose Choucroute de La Mer. One choucroute, one creme brulee, two glasses of sancerre and one bottle of Perrier add up to...68.50 euros, tip included. 

Every bit of bread, butter, silky sweet sauerkraut/choucroute was perfect, but the seafood was stupendous. I couldn't finish the choucroute but didn't leave a bite of anything else. 

The purple 4 metro line dropped me off at the Cite station, near my favorite church in the world, La Chapelle. The Notre Dame is still fenced off and I smiled as I remembered my virtual Notre Dame tour with Judy as we held hands and crashed into the exit in front of 20 people. I had a 17 minute walk, a walk I needed to accomplish without breaking a sweat in the 85 degrees. 

I found the rue de Rivoli, counted the blocks and joined a line outside a narrow, blank-painted door. A young man was talking excitedly to everyone, and I told him I already had a ticket.

He pointed me inside, and I walked down one, two, three levels of stairs to a beautiful cave underground. Many of the jazz clubs have Caveau in their names for this reason. At 38 Riv, I'm told the French underground had frequent meetings here. The owners have done a beautiful job with this club. The bar is in the back, so you interact with everyone as you move through the small venue. Seats are only about 16 inches tall, so knees are near chins. We're crammed in, but some guys on the side scoot over and I sit on a velvet cushion, my back resting against the wall. 

Then the Parisian owner comes in, starts cracking one liners in French, switches to broken English and we laugh at his terrible puns. He's a great warm-up act, though, and five young musicians take the stage, including the young man from the doorway. The guys to my right fell asleep, and I thought, how sad they're in the front row. I had hoped to hear my moldy fig jazz, a bit of swing and a lot of something other than this. Still, listening to music in the cave where the underground plotted was really cool, literally and figuratively. The beer was cold, too.

I thanked the owner, and he said come back for the 9:30 show. Nope. I have a sunset to chase. It's 9:00 p.m. now, and the light should be amazing. Here's what I saw, walking along the right bank of the Seine.

On the Port au Change, a band played and I sashayed down the bridge. They sounded a lot like the Stanford Band. But, this bridge affords a great view of Pont Neuf and since all of the young women were doing this selfie pose, I tried it. A bit windblown, but definitely happy!

A few steps past this photo stop, here's the band.

Now in the Left Bank, I stop to take one last shot of the old lady. Three weeks ago, only one huge crane was working. Tonight, two are locked in opposite positions.

Next time I return to Paris, the Notre Dame will be open. I'll enter, curtsey, and hope to see the Pieta at the end of the chapel. It survived the fire, its white marble darkened with ash, but I'll bet it will sparkle in December. Oh to be in Paris over the holidays! I can't believe they're going to swim in this river for the triathlon. 

Time to head underground. I remember the St. Michel station near my 2018 airbnb has a cool staircase. I can take the 4 back to dear Denfert-Rochereau and start packing.

I can't help smirking a bit. The quality of these signs is nothing like I navigated in 1984. Everything is ready for the Olympics. Except for the venues. I hope they can finish everything in time.

Back at the hotel, it's 10:00 p.m. I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. after asking the bellman to reserve a taxi for 4:30. While my flight on British Airlines leaves at 8:00 a.m., I want to be there two and a half hours early, just to be safe. I have to unzip only one expando zipper on my backpack, and everything else fits. I have a glass of monoprix chablis left and as I sip it, I know I won't find this wine in the U.S. I smile as I remember trying to buy a bottle yesterday. No wine sales on Sunday! she screamed at me. I'm a bit sad now that I'm organized and really leaving.

That's the thing. I really don't want to leave. I want to stay in this neighborhood, write my mystery, and walk by beautiful buildings, enter jazz clubs and museums, and soak in all of the beauty I can, until I can't. Maybe I've walked around too many cemeteries this trip, but for the first time in awhile I have some focus. Could I really become an American in Paris? I've done enough research to know I could afford it, especially if I rented my house. Do I have the guts to pull up roots for a year? I'm going to dream about it.

June 24 - Montparnasse Cemeterie

Breakfast was decent at my hotel. Included with the cost, I expected the usual crust of bread, piece of cheese and a cup of coffee. I ate the banana and yogurt and saved the pastries for later. I plan to go to the Catacombs this morning to see if I really want to write a mystery novel set in France.

Alas. The Catacombs are closed on Monday. If I'd known that, maybe I could have found an earlier flight from Rome. That part of the trip itinerary was booked in Europe, as it's usually a better deal. I'd chosen the cheapest, of course. Happily, I realized I'd just have to come back to the tombs and the story some time in the future.

Fortunately, the Montparnasse Cemetery was open and I walked down to the entrance. While this sign was a bit off-putting, I will say it was the most relaxing cemetery I've ever seen.

I was not alone in my quest to find certain gravesites. An older couple from Ireland asked me, in English, if I'd seen Samuel Becket. I showed them my picture of the cemetery and gave them the location numbers.

Another young woman was looking for Guy de Maupassant. I asked her if she was a writer, and she said, "I hope to be one. I'm here for a semester abroad." You are a writer, I replied, if you write. Together, we found the author of "The Necklace" and 300 other short stories.  Maupassant was a protege of Flaubert, and I paid my respects.  I smiled at the fact I never had any idea when I was in college, as much as I loved their writing, that one day I'd decorate their graves.  In 1984, I had no time for cemeteries, but 40 years later, I'm coming to grips. I'm an incurable romantic.

I took far too many pictures of literary and artistic heroes, so I'll just put a few here. Can you recognize the sculpture whose memorial is below?

If you guessed Bartholdi, the artist who made our Statue of Liberty, you are correct. Just a reminder that this is an active graveyard. Diggers use machines for the front row sites, but must dig by hand in the middle. Thoughts of Hamlet began as I listened to this digger's French folk songs play on a radio.

I include Henri Langlois here because I loved his films, but was astonished by his grave, covered with images from his masterpieces, including actual filmstrip encased in lucite. Somebody must tend to it daily, for it was spotlessly clean.

I ran into the Irish couple again. I showed them the map and plot numbers and they went in search of Beckett once more. While the Irish searched for Beckett, I found Eugene Ionesco, one of my favorite post-modern playwrights. I thanked him for writing The Rhinoceros. I vowed to write another play, so I've made myself a promise I have to keep, probably early in 2025.

I wasn't looking for Charles Pigeon, but how many gravesites have you seen where a couple is reading in bed, on top of their permanent resting place? And, with a plaque of gold-leaved mosaic proclaiming their names? After working at Le Bon Marche, he invented the Pigeon lamp, a non-exploding gasoline lamp, in the 1880's. This made him rich, and for many years his grave was illuminated by a similar lamp.

I found Beckett! Now I'll play Waiting for Godot and hope to find the Irish couple I've seen taking laps. Because Beckett's grave is low, flat, and kind of humble, it's no wonder they couldn't find it. After I waved them down, they left these flowers for him.

I did forget to find Jean Paul Sartre, and as it was more pleasant sitting on a bench across from Beckett, I waited a bit too long. The humidity and heat were rising, so I needed to move. I'd been in the cemetery for almost three hours, walking up and down in the shade of the trees, admiring the art, thinking about my own plans for my ashes to be spread in my beloved Sierra Nevada above Serene Lakes, and wondering how much a site cost in this cemetery.  I took one last stroll to the back of the cemetery that bordered Blvd. Edgar Quinet, and thought this is about as close to Cafe Flore as Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir could get. At first, I didn't recognize their memorial.

Covered in messages, clumps of dirt and the rocks often left on Jewish graves, I was surprised at the number of lipstick kisses on the headstones. Were they a recognition of the love between two writers? A love of existentialism, which wasn't a subject to love, I always thought? But here in a cemetery planned by Napoleon and full of French and expatriot lovers of self-expression through artistic endeavors, maybe kissing the headstone was the right thing to do. After I applied pink lipstick, I felt I should apologize to Sartre for not understanding him after the first two or ten attempts. Reposez en paix.

On my way back to the hotel, I picked up an ink drawing in front of an art studio. Instantly, the owner came out and started talking. I couldn't keep up, so his friend, in the striped shirt, interpreted. I bought an ink and watercolor drawing of the painter, in the glasses here, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Oscar Wilde standing in front of a bar along the Avenue Voltaire. For the next hour, we chatted about art and poetry and music, and they made me an espresso, insisting I try their cinnamon cake. Delicious Albanian recipe. I'm amazed at how friendly immigrants are here and remember that Randy said Parisians aren't friendly. Hmm.

June 23 - Evening on the Rue Daguerre

Louis Daguerre was a famous Parisian artist, a painter, scene designer, and photographer who, in 1839, went public with his new invention:  the daguerreotype. The street named for him was reserved for pedestrians by 1910, with a long, canvas covered market most days. Today, many fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and meats can be bought on the street and each individual shop has its own awning. 

After a nice nap, shower, fluffy towel wipe down, and a quick hair style with a blow dryer (!), I was ready for an adventure. I didn't know about the chic and hopping Rue Daguerre, but two blocks away I stood at a stoplight, and looked at a garishly-lit corner restaurant called Cafe Daguerre. I walked across the street to check out the menu and the people inside. At 7:00 p.m., there were still a few places to sit, but I decided to explore some more. 

As I walked down the street, restaurants on my right caught my eye. 

I walked about 4 blocks down, then returned back toward the beginning of the street and looked at the bucherie, fromagerie, patisserie, boulangerie, chocolatier on the left and thought, hmm, great neighborhood street. 

I found a street called Danville Avenue and thought that might be a fun address for a few months. Later I would look up the address on a real estate website and learn it was tres cher, too expensive for me. The Haussman-style buildings were gorgeous and I yearned to knock on an intricately carved wooden door and have a friend buzz me inside.

As the light began to dim, and my stomach gurgled for food, I returned to what I thought was the nicest restaurant on the street. It had tables outside with a few openings, and an interesting interior. Without a reservation, I felt I wouldn't have a seat. But, I was wearing my second-nicest dress and walking like Miriam. Why not try my most polite French and see what happened? 

Inside or outside? the maitre d' asked, nodding her approval of me. When I hesitated, she led me to a tiny table for one with the table outside the bi-folded window and the chair inside. I could see everything and was ready to watch the Parisians (and tourists) enjoy their food.

What to order from this traditional restaurant? It was when I opened the menu for Maison Peret that I learned I had extremely good taste in restaurants. This brasserie had opened as a bistrot a vin in 1908, and began serving farm to table food shortly thereafter. In the same family for four generations, they proudly state they "serve no frozen food, no microwaved food, and only freshly prepared foods from local suppliers." I thought this was typical of French restaurants, but had learned earlier in the month that many Paris established restaurants were "cheating" and serving frozen foods. My friends Randy and Jack considered that to be food blasphemy. Still, I needed to decide what to eat and the roasted duck sounded divine. Did I dare?

I forgot to take a picture before I devoured my duck, but here's an idea. This very simple dinner of roasted small butter potatoes, spring greens salad and duck was perfectly cooked. The butter for the tiny dinner croissants was from Normandy, and the table pepper was some of the freshest I've had. I began my meal with a glass of chablis, noting that I'd never find something this perfect for a warm summer evening at home. California wines are great, but we don't make chablis like the French. I asked my server his recommendation for a wine with the duck, and he said it had to be a light red. He chose a 2020 Chinon AOP from the Chateau de la Bonneliere. Like the DOC of Italy, the AOP Appellation d'Origine Protegee designation means the wines were made with the cultural knowhow of the specific region. This glass also had a green "AB" with a leaf next to the price, which means it's made in a sustainable winery. All this to say the wine was a great match for the duck, but an even better one for the buttery croissants. While I drank the chablis far too quickly, I savored the Chinon, having never tasted any red wine quite like it.

One of my favorite parts of a French meal is the pace of service. Attentive but not intrusive, I felt taken care of. Yes, it did take over half an hour for my duck to arrive, but I enjoyed people-watching and seeing the reflection of the light on the charcuterie window change as the sun set. I spent about an hour and a half at Maison Peret, didn't have coffee or dessert, and felt appreciated. Such a different experience than 40 years ago, when I spoke no French, didn't know the expected customary greeting whenever one walks into a store or restaurant, and was treated like a scumbag American tourist. After the frenetic nature of Rome and the quiet tranquility of La Romita, I welcomed the elegance of French manners. I'm becoming a snob.

There's still some sunset to chase tonight. Did Monet paint these clouds for me? Ah, now I'm pretentious, too.

June 23: My Dear Denfert Rochereau

I had a quiet ride to the airport, wondering if I'd be standing in the security line for three hours like I'd done in 2022.  Just like the flight from Geneva to Rome, my flight from Rome to Paris was easy. I wasn't in the overseas international area, but in a smaller terminal dedicated to intra-Europe flights. I had time to visit the shopping mall, have lunch, and see the art on display. Even the line-up lanes were artistic!

Easy Jet is very, very easy. If you told me the company had bought older Southwest Airlines 737s for their fleet, I would have believed you on the flight from Geneva to Rome. The seats were Southwest blue. Today's plane was an Airbus. They have another inch or two of legroom, which didn't really matter on a two-hour flight. Still, I'd reserved a seat on the right side of the plane in the hope of seeing the Alps on the way. First, a final look at the lovely Italian beaches. Funny how this picture looks upside down, but the fields were east of the Mediterranean.

We flew within range of Lake Bolsena, and I made a mental note that I had to go there next time. I was getting a crick in my neck, drifted off for a bit, then a few neighbors started oohing and ahhing. Yes, the Alps. Is it possible this is the back side of the Matterhorn, showing her peak only to those above 15,000 feet? Hard to say.

Upon landing, I walked off the plane, through the baggage claim area and kept walking through Orly Airport until I found the transportation area. The Blue RER train line I'd intended to take to Denfert-Rochereau was delayed by an hour, which must be making the commuters in town crazy. The next bus would leave in 25 minutes, but dragging my suitcase and backpack onto a crowded bus seemed unfair to people going home from work. So, I found the taxi line. Nobody seemed interested in checking my passport. I felt like a local.

The vibe was very different in this taxi queue. Nobody would dream of cutting in line. We were protected from the sun and a breeze blew through the line. Security guards were at the front, in the middle, and directing people to the end of the line. The contrast between Rome and Paris was blatantly pro-Paris. Is this because of the upcoming Olympics? Due to high security alerts? When I got to the front of the line, a hunky young security guard rolled my bag to the taxi for me, lifted the bag and backpack into the trunk and gave a slight bow of his head. Wow. I thought he might click his heels together, but no.

And then, I arrived in my dear Denfert Rochereau plaza and the Metro stop I depended on to survive 40 years before. Something about the freshly painted green wrought iron and a young man struggling with a suitcase on the stairs took me back to my first visit to Paris in 1984.

My college buddy and post-college roommate Lisa had finished her first year of medical school and had snagged a coveted internship in a Paris hospital. She was staying in the dorms of the City University of Paris, which was on the edge of Montparnasse. She invited me to stay with her and it was so hot I slept on the roof, with a few other international students. When I arrived, I bought a handful of Metro tickets and lost them all in a few hours. I didn't understand how to navigate my first subway rides, and kept going to the wrong side of the platform. I wondered why they chose not to name stops after streets or landmarks. Then, I lost 10 francs in a day, and chose to spend another 25 francs on a carte de l'orange, which was also a paper ticket in a bright orange color.  It was valid for a week, and as long as I didn't lose it, I could get lost in the Metro and still make it back to Roguefort Dressing (my mnemonic device for Denfert Rochereau). After a few days of failed navigation, I took to the streets. What a good decision. Here's a Metro map from 1984. Denfert Rochereau is a main hub, and the Cite Universitaire stop is just below it. Thank goodness that stop was related to my home location!

Now I know you just need to know the names of the end stops on each line and you can always get to the correct platform. Thank goodness for today's plastic Metro d'couverte - it never expires! I have leftover euros on my one from 2022. Hopefully it works tomorrow.

But this afternoon? A shopping trip to the Monoprix around the corner, a rest, and a hunt for dinner.

My Montparnasse hotel has an elevator! And as requested, they gave me a room in the back so I wouldn't hear the street noise. Why did I ever want to stay in hot, dirty, intense Rome when I could be in leafy Montparnasse and sleep near where the writers lived? A bus across the street, the RER Blue line downstairs, and restaurants, restaurants, restaurants!

Dreamland for awhile in a queen-sized bed with the AC on! I'm living in Montparnasse, writing in the mornings, walking around in the afternoons to see art, enjoying evenings of music and literary salons with friends...

June 23.- I found six of the seven hills of Rome

Oh, to be lazy, sleeping in a lofted bed in the chic Trastavere section of Rome! Miriam had put yogurt and berries in the tiny fridge for me, so I didn't have to go out for breakfast. Church bells were calling believers to Mass as I stripped the sheets off of the bed. Excellent, modern bathroom with plenty of hot water and special shampoo made me sad to leave Rome, but to be honest I was beginning to be really excited about returning to Paris. 

I had several hours before I'd head to the taxi stand and I needed to walk a lot since I'd be sitting in the Roma airport for a few hours, flying for an hour and a half, then commuting to Montparnasse. On an old map I saw the Fonte Acqua Paola, and started walking up the winding streets toward the large green spaces on top of the hill. 

The rain started in about 30 minutes, and again, I bemoaned the loss of my phone and raincoat. It was a light, cool rain so I was happy to get wet. What on a map appeared to be a twenty minute stroll turned into a major workout. Instead of hiking up to the Via Garibaldi, which looked like a main boulevard, I chose the smaller, side streets. I saw Santa Maria Trastavere from behind and knew I was heading in the wrong direction. Staircase after staircase! Up via d. Paglia and via Biondi, up a private lane (oops) next to the Spanish embassy.

The guard detail didn't speak Italian or English, and had their hands on the trigger the whole time they walked me off the property. Their camo jumpsuits had water beading down them and their helmets had some fake plants sprouting from the top. This was so funny looking I forgot to be scared. They didn't need anything to hide them in the bushes; their pop-up tent was red and yellow, visible from a distance, just not in my path of vision from the staircase below. 

At the end of the lane, I found a six-street exchange. Really? I had to walk a long circle around the plaza to find the right street. And the fountain in the middle of this was dry.

The possibility I had been on a wild (dry) goose chase would have been funny, but I'd made it all the way up 118 stairs of the Via Glorioso hoping to find the fountain, only to start limping! My knees... 

Maybe the Spaniards had given me the curse of Juan Ponce de Leon and I would never find the fountain of youth. A bar man unlocked his gates (at 10:00 a.m. Sunday?!) sold me a bottle of water and I kept walking.  

I found more embassies, and an American school. Finally, the actual fountain! It's a beauty. An entire soccer team was taking pictures in front of it. I think they'd just won a game as they were biting their medals, reminding me that the Olympics would be starting soon.

From this fountain, I found the via Garibaldi and decided the sidewalk would protect me from the speeding cars. I took one last staircase down to the lane, and wished I'd had a way to carbon date the cobblestones. My knees were hurting, so I gingerly stepped over these and hoped my ankles would stay put.

At last! The gate in Trastavere that is near my apartment. Time to find a taxi.