O the places we'd seen !

I feel unbelievably lucky that Tadhg could come for 10 splendid, soleil-drenched days in the capitale. It was remarkably bright and warm during his stay and we made the most of it, splaying ourselves on the grass devant le Pont Alexandre, spending a whole afternoon sitting in the ancient arènes de Lutèce, watching a group of young boys, très doué, play soccer, while on the other side of the venerable stadium a group of old men milled and squatted in the shadows, a game of pétanque making their deliberations seem all the more quaint.

We strolled arm in arm through the plein air Jardin de sculpture, we went through the Jardin des plantes and marveled at the dragon made of recyclable things, his curlicued breath, upon examination, turns out to be the filigreed six pack plastic rings from soda cans.

We went to the marché on Port Royal and the beautiful heads of lettuce seemed more beautiful than the tufted heads of children.

We ate saucisson and comté as snacks. We strolled through Père Lachaise, hurriedly looking for Oscar Wilde’s tomb before the security guards sussed us out. We were chased from the Parc de Belleville right before sunset and we didn’t even mind, having laughed together at the three small children who ran like martians, silently and delicately, each carrying a pastel balloon from McDonald’s like a glowing orb, around the parc, pointing at but never touching the flowers which were pushing up in this early burst of spring. The drama of the small boy responding to the garde’s warning that the park was closing, his face a small battle between petrification, tears and insolence – mustering up “On ne touche pas” and then repeating his claim, once more, this time more quietly, to the girl among them “On ne touche pas” – I shall never forget his face, nor the lovely classic way he pronounced the 'e' on the end of ‘touche’, just as if his small stand against the ravages of time were a half-alexandrin, dropping off into the wind. This boy and his memory makes a bookend with the Van Dyck painting I saw at the Jacquemart-André the day Tadhg left, Le Temps coupe les ailes de l’amour where old Time, having laid down his scythe, holds the boy against squirming as he cuts off his delicate wings with rough shears.