Thirty years earlier, in the 1970s, I had spent a week in Paris on a Henry Miller pilgrimage, trying to track down Miller’s old haunts. I walked around in circles for a few minutes then realized I’d better start looking for a place to stay. “No thanks, “I said, “but Monsieur, you must, you must. Someone offered to sell me tickets to a music festival in Normandy or Germany or somewhere. I descended at Gare Montparnasse and trundled my suitcase across the Place Montparnasse, filled with a swirling noontime crowd. The unmistakable roof lines, facades, and sidewalks unreeled before me like a movie. This was the bus ride from Charles de Gaulle airport into Paris and, after a nine-hour flight in coach, I was composed of little more than grogginess, jet lag, and panic.Įventually, the bus entered the center of Paris – finally, were buildings that I remembered, street names I recognized: Boulevard St. Best not to look at the scenery: eight lanes of traffic, roaring motorcycles, flashing billboards, and steel-and-glass office buildings as hideous as those beside any freeway in Houston or Atlanta – overall, a depressing introduction to France.
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