March 1, 1992
[Paris] Another glorious day. Yesterday was like spring, the first nice day of the year, and everybody was out and about. Patrick and I sat on the wall overlooking the Seine around the corner from his apartment, drinking coffee and going through apartment listings.
Patrick’s life is so idyllically Parisian I can hardly stand it. Every five minutes something happens that’s like a scene from a French movie, all perfectly framed and lit and everything. He stops a girl in the street and she gives him a light; or he slams on the brakes and jumps out to check out a big rusty sheet of metal that someone left propped up on the sidewalk that he thinks might make a perfect tabletop. And there’s the Seine in the background, or an old man with a cane, or a troop of schoolgirls or something, just to remove any doubt of where you are. I love this city.
Called Tomi from a phone booth. It was good to hear her voice. “Ah yes, Paris,” she sighed. “Of course, it’s a heartless and materialistic society, but it takes you a while to realize that because it’s so beautiful.” She was deeply envious that I’m moving here.
I told her Patrick’s suggestion that I buy an apartment instead of renting one. She just laughed.
Florence made Moroccan soup for dinner and we watched West Side Story on TV dubbed into French.
