However--compact the apartment appeared in photos, it's smaller. Not quite like living on a boat, but every inch does count. Have already rearranged a few accessories to suit myself, the only personalization possible. Out front, massive wooden doors open into a stone passageway (like French Quarter homes, like--: ) on a micro scale--the Louvre) which then opens into a small courtyard; stairs and elevator (capacity 2 persons, or 1 person and 1 piece of luggage) just to the right. Remember the timed lights on the French spiral stairs? they're still around, in force. Just in case you wondered.

But went to sleep at crash time, noonish, to the sound of Notre Dame's fuller bell performance, as opposed to the more subdued marking of the half and quarter hours. And there's a police motorcycle patrol station two doors up, so guess what else is a more or less constant sound? And then, later this afternoon, with the windows open (of course), I kept vacillating between thinking the violin I could hear (loud and clear) was someone playing a recording, or live--and then there was the small, clearly live applause. Whoever it was, was amazing (obviously, when it was that difficult to tell): there were two or three pieces I recognized from Yo-Yo Ma's "Vivaldi's Cello," though I'll freely admit I couldn't now name them.

At the moment I can just barely name myself, & have no idea whether this is at all coherent or not. Instead of the one lost night's sleep, on the flight, that I'd expected, it's been a good 3 nights, after not all that much before that. Hence the little crash-nap. And then the seller, who'd come to let me in, help me up, and show me a few things, with the promise of being back at 4:00 to go over more things and go out for some dinner, never showed up, & I HAVE NOT been able to reach him on his cellphone, no matter what numbers I include or omit (& finally decided it really couldn't be just me, since I was able to reach his office number to leave the message I was going out, an hour and a half later).

So walked to a little creperie behind Notre Dame (3 short blocks) & had eggs with smoked salmon, and tea, first food since the "breakfast snack" on the plane, unless you count crackers and apple slices). I took a tiny table (as they all were) just inside from the sidewalk, facing out (i.e., facing, across the street, the Square Jean XXIII), but while that still permitted me the (as I've seen it called) French national sport of people-watching, it spared me none of the chilly wind. And yet, do you hear me complaining? After the summer just past?

* * * * *

Not here 24 hours, and already I'm having little flares of "damned tourists!" You'd think I'd be thoroughly inured to it, living where I do (still remembering the t-shirt "Why do they call it tourist season if you can't shoot them?"--but I digress, into another mindset entirely . . . ), yet when you have to keep weaving and stopping as they stop dead in front of you, BY THE SCORE, to snap photos with Notre Dame (or whatever) in the background (because of course you're polite, and don't want to spoil their shots), when all you're trying to do is get across to the Left Bank to buy some groceries . . . . And how churlish is that, when that checker at the Franprix was so patient with ME (no doubt rolling her eyes on the inside). And, of course, veered off myself, on the way back with a full backpack, in the pre-twilight, to walk all around the parvis, to look at the markers of where all the medieval buildings once crowded much closer to the cathedral. Until Haussmann.

And I may not have gotten to do this--whole thing, years, decades ago, when I was fresher, when I had more energy, and all that--but really, I realized walking back, if not before, that there is no light kinder to age than that of Paris: that silvery, subdued glow (especially on an almost-October day that started out foggy and overcast and became a little sunny; especially just after sunset, for heaven's sake). The southern light, the unforgiving Mediterranean sun, may need make no apologies to youth, but this northern aura is made for "un certain age."

And then came on "home" with the few staples I'd procured: creme fraiche, goat's cheese . . . seriously, plus 2 kinds of yogurt, plain & bio, eggs, apples, finger potatoes, plums, a lemon, a little bit of chicken, an onion, tea, water. I resisted, for now, all Nutella and Nutella-like products. I refused to buy bread at a market; I'll do that in the morning at an actual boulangerie.

So, with a headachy thing warning me again, and eyes glazing, a bientot (canNOT get diacritical markings here yet; must work on that!).