City of LIghts

The tests are done, the papers are written. In fact, my bags are mostly packed. I have one day left. Paris is ending.

I spent the evening on the Left Bank, near Place Saint-Michel. The fountain is one of Haussmann's creations, built in 1855. I read the statue was originally going to be of Napoleon, but there was enough anger at Louis Napoleon (Napoleon III)—who had only recently declared himself emperor—that it didn't happen. I'm not sure how that worked. I mean, if Louis Napoleon was emperor, it seems he could have insisted. In any event, the fountain features St. Michael and his dragons. I like the dragons. In fact, I like the fountain, it's big and dramatic and looks like Paris.

Protesters gather here. They have for centuries. That's why I saw demonstrators here the day I purchased Stendhal's The Red and The Black. Remember? The Paris Commune made a stand here in the 1870s, and so too the students during the May 1968 riots. Les événements, (The events) they're called. One of our speakers, a wonderfully articulate woman who summed up several hundred years of French politics, was part of those riots. She got me thinking that book four, that's set in the sixties in San Francisco, might have a taste of Paris too...

I like the Latin Quarter. It's one of the places I keep going back to. There's a little church there, Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, where I've gone several times to hear piano concerts. I'm contemplating spending my last night there, in fact, because there's a Liszt and Chopin concert.

It starts at 8pm, so I don't know. A taxi is arriving at 6am Friday morning to pick me up. My plane leaves at 10:30am... It's so strange, or maybe it's not strange at all, but I can't believe I'm going home. I couldn't believe I was coming and certainly couldn't believe I was here. So I suppose it makes sense that I can't believe it's ending. I keep swelling with emotion. I'm very sad to be leaving.

Paris at night is all alight. It really is. And where it's not alight, everything goes all soft and romantic. It looks like some old Cary Grant movie. The pictures: the bicyclists and the alleyway are from the walk I take to school. In the daylight it's a mostly modern, less than interesting trek through the 13th arrondissement. At night, voilà.

I sat in a cafe and drank a glass of wine. It seemed like the right thing to do. The weather has warmed up and I was sitting near one of those outdoor heaters. It was cozy and wonderful, except for the bill. It cost me 8 Euros for a glass of wine!

Still, it wasn't enough to suck the romance out of my evening. Since I'd paid for my table, I sat there for a good hour or so, writing, watching people and reading, yes, Stendhal. I'm almost done with the Red and The Black. I've read it on the Metro. It's absolutely excellent, the politics are fascinating and the book is full of footnotes—anything the translator figures a modern English reader wouldn't know. It's a treasure trove.

It was written in 1830 and right now, Stendhal is talking about a secret meeting of a bunch of Royalists who are hoping to get foreign governments involved to keep the people from trying to overthrow the king. This is right before the July Revolution of 1830—which is central to my book.

And speaking of books, I made a last pass by Shakespeare and Company, Hemingway's bookstore. It's a great bookstore, crammed full of books and overflowing. I shouldn't have gone in, but I did. I shouldn't have gone in because it meant that I walked out with another book. I don't know where I'm going to put it, but it's a history of Paris. Again the pictures: the blue lights are on Rue des Martyrs. The carousel disappeared last weekend and the lights went up. Shakespeare and Company is in the Latin Quarter near the cafe where I read Stendhal. I mean, really, where else does one read Stendhal?