The painter, the poet, and I went to the market behind Bastille. Bought olives and radishes so we could have a lovely breakfast tomorrow. The poet found a cafe that had advertisements for photo show of the Rolling Stones in the Place des Vosges which is close to where my son and his wife are staying until Monday. The poet asked if he could take a photo of me leaning against a poster showcasing Keith Richards. I wondered if he saw age as the tie.
Since the gallery was near by, we wandered over, but it was closed. Much time has passed since I had been to the Place des Vosges, more than seven years: I had forgotten how stunning it can be.
I spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to get French classes at the Catholic University, only to discover the short term classes are offered only in the summer. The conversation with the clerk was in French as her colleague who could speak English wasn’t available. As soon as I used the word “voudrais” or would like, using the conditional tense, she sighed with relief. “Vous pouvez parler le francais.” You can speak French she said, but I know, pas bien. She gave me the name of a school which I will try tomorrow, my fifth attempt at locating a place to school me in French.
My son called for restaurant suggestions known for good steak au poivre. The only one that came to mind was Balzar’s: the last time I was there didn’t impress. We ended up at Chez Paul by Bastille. Company good, food not so good.
I covered 12 miles today but found none of the women I’m looking for, not even myself.