![]() ![]() ![]() It almost didn’t happen–it was March 2003, a time dominated by the growing din of war and paralyzing international anxiety. Life in Paris was warm and fragrant and tasty as a mug of La Rotonde’s chocolat.ĭon’t be jealous: this was a trip I’d dreamed of and saved for and planned for years, and I was determined to make the most of it now that I was here. In the afternoons I sat by the blood-colored wall of La Rotonde, the café where Bohemians like Picasso, Apollinaire, Modigliani, and Leger congregated once they moved away from the more crowded and expensive Montmartre district on the other side of town. Montparnasse was cheerily busy and replete with brasseries and cafes. In the Luxembourg Gardens, a block from where I was staying, the chestnut trees stood on the side of the pathways, their faces hoary with a morning’s growth of green spring beard. This time last year the sun in Paris was unseasonably warm, causing battalions of yellow tulips to take up early posts in the city’s parks and planter boxes. Michael Fallon goes to Paris, okay, I'm envious too, but he saw a lot of wonderful art that reminded him of what the stuff can do if you let it. ![]()
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