It's quiet at breakfast. Just the clinking sound of dishes in a room around the corner. I eat quickly, not wanting to waste any time, eager to get out into the midst of my last sunny Paris day as quickly as possible.

I take the Metro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and wander the windy streets near the Ecole Nationale des Beaux Arts. On Saturday along the Boulevard Saint Germain, I had seen scrolls on the lampposts advertising an exhibition of Robert Doisneau's photographs at Galerie Claude Bernard on the Rue des Beaux Arts. I can think of no better way to end my Paris holiday than among the simple black and white photographs that have colored my imaginings of this charming city for so long.

It's a small gallery, and on display are about 40 of his photographs, including the famous Baiser de l'Hôtel-de-Ville and the sweet Les Amoureux aux Poireaux which I had sent to friends in postcard form. But I spend most of my time staring wistfully at La Cheminée de Madame Lucienne. The foreground of the photograph captures picture frames and collectable gestures that sit on the mantle of a fireplace. And through them you see the distant passions and deliberate lives of the elderly couple in the background. Though I fight the urge with every bit of my fierce independence, I make a simple wish for those kinds of tokens to remember my love and life when the years have passed.

A little sad, needing to be cheered by the light and warmth of the sun, I opt for a walk along the Seine to the Musée d'Orsay. Lovers consume the embankment's stone benches and each other's insatiable urges. I disappear under dark bridges and look out through framed windows and doors at the perfected glimpses of the city along the water. A weeping willow dangles its elongated stems in the river water, lit light like saffron from the sun. My walk feels slow and methodical, and slightly tinged with regret.

I decide to skip over the Musée d'Orsay's obscenely long line, desiring instead to just walk the sunny streets of Paris in an attempt to remember every detail: the man rinsing the sidewalk with a garden hose, the taxis waiting anxiously on every corner, the bustle of a late morning filled with routines that to me appear as anything but.

I walk slowly toward the Palais and Jardin du Luxembourg, stopping into tiny shops filled with smelly books and glistening jewels. I'm instantly cheered by the familiar sight of the chairs along the garden's gravel walkways. I watch them seemingly hold conversation in animated groups of twos and threes. The sun casts awkward shadows over small patches of green grass; the flower beds have recently been tilled, awaiting fragrant gifts of spring. Some trees stand at a taut attention, while others, gnarled and knobby, seem to stand leisurely at their heights.

I snap photograph after photograph, thinking of how this Paris, the city inside these palace gates, could be anywhere. I could be anywhere. I am anywhere.

As a child my visions of Paris were straw hats garnished with red ribbons and the steps and gas lamps of Montmartre. But now, after these short days, there is so much more bubbling up from the surface. Mandolins and artists' cases. Black pea coats and spike-heeled leather boots. There is the warmth and hazy sunshine of winter, mild and quiet and simple. And there are the red lights and smoke clouds and surreptitious nights, endless with their possibilities.

And now I'll remember it all.

<<  le troisième jour