“I know Paris believes inconvenience builds character.”
The driver laughs once.
“Paris believes many things about itself.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
He nods toward the windshield as we slow behind a delivery truck.
“You are here for work?”
“Yes.”
“What work?”
“Food.”
The driver makes a thoughtful sound.
“Then traffic is not your biggest problem.”
“No?”
“No,” he says. “Everyone in Paris thinks they know food.”
“That is also true in New York.”
“Yes,” the driver says, “but in Paris we are more annoying about it.”
I smile and turn toward the window. By the time we reach Le Marais, the afternoon has started to loosen into evening. The light drops lower, warmer, sliding across stone facades and catching in window glass until every street looks briefly more expensive than it has any right to be. The buildings stand close together in shades of cream, grey, and pale honey, their shutters open, their courtyards hidden behind heavy doors that suggest entire private worlds I will not be invited into and would probably judge if I were.
My hotel is tucked on a quiet street just off the busier route, with a narrow entrance, brass fixtures, and window boxes filled with red geraniums. It is exactly discreet enough to be expensive and exactly old enough to make the elevator suspicious.
The woman at the front desk has black hair cut to her jaw, a silk scarf tied neatly at her throat, and a face that has perfected welcome without surrender.
“Madame Cole,” she says in English as she checks my passport.
“Welcome to Paris.”
“Thank you.”
“You are staying six weeks?”
“Yes.”
“That is not a visit,” she says. “That’s almost a life.”
“Almost,” I say.
Her mouth curves.
“Then we’ll try to make thealmostcomfortable.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Your room faces the courtyard,” she says.
“Quiet. Good light in the morning. The desk is near the window.”
