For Paris is a Movable Feast

It was not the best of visits to the City of Lights, in August when the city was empty of natives except those who must stay to deal with the tourists. 

There was, for instance, an unpleasant restaurant episode involving a snotty waiter who suggested, sneeringly, that we might like catsup with our lamb.  

I took my traveling companion on a day-long Bataan Death-March tour of the city starting in Saint-Germain, to Notre Dame, past the Louvre, by the Jardin des Tuileries, up Champs-Elysee, to Le Tour and beyond, until she demanded a taxi back to the hotel, or at least a cafe, some wine, and probably a cigarette. Possibly a foot-masage.

Still. 

Paris.

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My companion claimed that Le Tour Eiffel looked just like an asparagus spear. Or a radio tower. And not one of the charming ones, either. She might have just been cranky, having clocked her 217th kilometer on the hard cobbled streets without adequate pause for refreshments.

She did not seem to notice the Rodin statues mocking her, pretending to be mimes. Under the plane trees. With the scent of madeleines in the air.

Even so, note the child wearing chic little black dress and hat with father in black espadrilles. In the Jardin du Luxembourg. Naturellement.

This snack, served without rudeness, was enough to make me wax Hemingway-esque: "As we ate the crusty bread smeared with pate with its dark, rich flavor, and then crunched the little sour pickles so that the darkness was washed away, leaving only the taste of richness, and as I drank the cold beer, I lost the empty feeling, and I became happy again."