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It was New Year’s Day in Paris. Most of the brasseries and bars had remained open until five a.m., after splendid light displays at La Tour Eiffel and the Arc de Triomphe. The early-morning streets had been absolutely mobbed with couples and groups of people considerably younger than me. It was a love-fest of all the skin shades that make up modern France. At the Eiffel Tower, a young Iraqi approached us after all the hooting and hollering at midnight had subsided. He told us proudly that he was waiting for an opportunity to go to “the greatest nation on earth – England.” It was his goal and I could not argue with his choice. Brexit be damned, and the fact that England probably did not want him, or perhaps did not deserve him.
We ate the first lunch of the new year in a train station – the majestic Gare de Lyon, home of Le Train Bleu. It is a grand restaurant in a room that looks like it belongs in a palace. All I can say is “marvelous” in every way. On the way home, we ducked into the crowded Café St. Regis on Ile Saint Louis for a glass of cheer. At a nearby table sat three young men with stacks of coins in front of them, looking much like participants in a poker game who had just gone “all in.” I speculated that they were about to leave Paris and were ridding themselves of all their euro change. Their server came over and good-naturedly counted out each stack and dropped them into a pile on her tray. It was an unusual display of patience for Paris, but then the guys were cute and polite. As they left the bistro, the three picked up a large base violin and two smaller instrument cases. I guessed it was time for them to start thinking about dinner.
