Evening in Paris

Trish couldn't believe her luck.  She unwrapped the enormous Chanel box to find the most beautiful rhinestone encrusted dress imaginable.  Yes, it was from Monsieur Veuve Cliquot and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.  Isabelle and Lucy practically fainted when she unwrapped the pink tissue paper and pulled the dress from its box.

Ooh La La!  And on top of this, he had sent each of the girls--by chauffeured limousine no less--a bouquet of white gardenias and a another box that contained a bottle of chilled Veuve Clicquot.  This made Lucy and Isabelle ooh and ahh in aproval.  "The Queen of Zumba does it again!" Lucy squealed, getting ready for an evening out on the town.

Still, Trish wondered why she was not completely excited to go to the evening's soiree.  Oh yes, there was also an invitation in the package.  It seemed that Monsieur Veuve Clicquot wanted the three American girls to attend a party on the rue de Honore.  Trish was obviously expected to wear the rhinestone dress and arrive at the party with all their American joie de vivre.  But there was something in Trish that made her resist this command performance.  Yes, she was more than a little captivated, but Monsieur Veuve Clicquot, but she also wondered if this was just another move in his game of chess.

"Come one, Trish, let's go!" Isabelle called from the front door of their Left Bank apartment.  And so despite her misgivings, Trish joined her friends, Lucy and Isabelle and walked out into the streets, knowing that this particular evening in Paris would be the beginning of something completely new.

To be continued....

The Cure for a Broken Heart

Lucy wanted to be like the other girls in her class.  They seemed to take everything in stride.  So fancy-free and confident.  She walked outside the Sorbonne classroom, and leaned against the wall in the courtyard.  She couldn't help but laugh at Marilee and Sonya prancing about, taking photos of one another.  They were sisters from the RISD program and had already garnered the notice of French Elle Magazine.  Not just because they were great photographers, but because they were so pretty.  

But that wasn't what made them so confident, Lucy mused.  It was something else.  Love, most likely.  And at this moment, it felt as if Lucy had none.  

Peter hadn't responded to any of her texts.  Yes, she texted him several times, even though Trish and Isabelle had told her not to.  She couldn't help herself!

All she could think about was how she wished Peter was here with her and hold her.

Lucy walked across the courtyard and met up with Isabelle who seemed to be just as upset as she felt at that moment.  

"Look at that," she said, pointing to Michael, the boy who seemed so interested in Isabelle just yesterday.  "He's fallen for Miss Savannah College of Art and Design!"  

"SCAD for short," Lucy said, watching as the blonde with the long legs cornered Michael and leaned into him, as if announcing to the others in the class that he now belonged to her.

"I give up, Lucy!" Isabelle sighed.  "Anyway, I don't even know him.  We should focus on getting some good pictures today."

"Yes," Lucy agreed.  "Work will cure you of a broken heart!  That's what my mother taught me." Lucy's mother was also a photographer, and in fact, she was the one who taught Lucy how to take pictures in the first place. 

If only she had taught her how to cope with a broken heart!

To be continued....

P.S.  Michael has a secret.  Any suggestions?

For most recent chapters, please link to "Paris Changes Everything."

Trish was lost.  Not just lost in Paris, but lost in life.  She walked along the Seine, hoping she'd soon find a bridge to get her over to the Left Bank.  She had no idea whether she was walking toward the Sorbonne or away from it.

Everything felt as if it was in reverse and she had landed in an alternate universe, where part-time Zumba instructors/full-time art students were elevated to princesses.  Well, if not a princess, then a super-model.  And she did not want to be a super-model no matter how glamorous it looked in the pages of Vogue.  She wanted to be the one behind the camera.  The serious one.  The artist.  The one who took the photographs!

Still, if she was honest with herself, she knew she wasn't really sure what she wanted to be.  Some days she just wanted to stay at home and read fashion magazines and some days she just wanted to teach Zumba classes and let loose on the dance floor.  One thing she did know for sure was that she did not want to be Monsieur Clicquot's It Girl.  Not matter how charming and convincing he could be.

Still, she felt lost.  Her mind was in a fog of confusion.  

And that's when she saw it.  The Eiffel Tower.  It emerged out of the landscape like a beacon.  

And this is when Trish took a deep cleansing breath, filling her lungs with Zumba Love and the aroma of all things Parisian, and then she flashed upon what she needed to do!

To be continued....
P.S.  What has Trish decided to do?  Any suggestions?

Miss Savannah's Secret

       Isabelle watched as Michael stepped up to the wall and then closer to Charlotte’s photographs.  After a moment, he adjusted the masking tape to straighten out the one of the black and white checked shoes.  “There,” he said.  “Better.”

            Charlotte smiled and sighed.  “Thank you,” she told him, with her southern drawl.

            “I like that one,” Isabelle said, not because she really did, but because she thought she ought to remind them that there was another person in the room, and plus she thought she should lay down a laurel branch.  Although she didn’t really know why.  It wasn’t like they were in a battle over Michael.  Or were they?

            Michael smiled at her and was about to say something like oh, are you still here, Mademoiselle Eeesabelle? Although, that was just her imagination.  Thank goodness, Lucy walked in the door at this moment, carrying a half-eaten baguette, trailing bread crumbs behind her and looking particularly discombobuled, even for dear Lucy. 

            “Have you seen Trish?” she demanded, holding up the baguette as if it were a sword and was prepared to go to battle to rescue her friend.  “Isabelle, she never came home last night.”

            Isabelle pulled Lucy away from Michael and the girl from Savannah Art and Design.  There was no reason for them to hear about their wayward friend.  Plus, the rest of the class was beginning to filter into the room.  “I’m sure she’s just had a little adventure.  She’ll be back.”

            “But that man,” Lucy pleaded.

            “The Veuve Clicquot guy?”

            “Yes,” Lucy whispered, trying to lower her voice, but not doing a very good job of it.

            “So?”

            “Well, I don’t know.”  Lucy took a big bite of her baguette, as if bread would comfort her.  “Maybe he kidnapped her!  Maybe she’s on a ship right now, headed out of the Port de Marseilles for who-knows-where!”

            Isabelle grabbed Lucy’s arm and squeezed just a bit, to quiet her.  “Stop it, now,” she told her friend, and then gently released Lucy’s arm.  “Trish can take care of herself.  Come on.  She’s a big girl.  She’s twenty-eight!”

            “She’s only twenty-eight!”

            “Lucy,” Isabelle said, using her stern, mother-knows-best voice.  “She knows zumba.”

            “How’s that going to help!?”

            “Well, she’s strong.  And she’s can kick.  That’s something, isn’t it?”

            Lucy didn’t seem at all comforted by this thought, but before Isabelle could say anything, Miss Savannah interrupted with a kind of cat that ate the canary smile.  “Is she the girl in the Betsy Johnson frock?" she asked, referring to the hot pink sequin number Trish had worn to Le Cave, the night before.

     Miss Savannah smiled slightly.  "I know exactly where your friend, Trish, is.  I was with her last night,” and then she paused for effect.  “Along with your Monsieur Veuve Clicquot!”

To be continued....

P.S.  How is it that Miss Savannah knows where Trish was last night?  Any suggestions?

   

The Girl from Savannah

     Today was their first crit session, the moment of truth, and Isabelle was in a bit of tizzy.  As she looked at her photographs posted on the classroom wall she realized that they were all terrible.  Absolutely awful.

     “So you can’t decide which is your best?” asked Michael, the student from RISD, the boy who was wearing corduroys yesterday, but was now wearing a pair of stylish chinos and a tan jacket.  He looked remarkably handsome, as he stood beside Isabelle.  

     He looked at her photos.  “I can see your problem,” he continued.  “They’re all good.”

            “No,” Isabelle insisted, feeling somewhat defensive and annoyed.  What was it with this boy that bothered her?  “I’m trying to find the worst one, because they’re all terrible!”

            And with this, she felt her cheeks blush and she knew exactly what it was about this boy that bothered her.  She was developing a little crush on him.  Ridiculous, she told herself.  She was in Paris to work, not to find romance.  She was nothing like Trish, falling in and out of love at the drop of hat.  And where was Trish, anyway?  The class was going to begin in a few minutes.  Isabelle looked at Michael’s photos next to her own.  He had taken pictures of trees and flowers and grass.  Some close-up and some from a distance.  One of his photos was very simple: a red leaf on a green lawn.

            “Ooh, I love nature pictures!” This came from a leggy blonde student who had just sidled up to them and pushed her way in between Isabelle and Michael.

      The blonde was from the Savannah College of Art and Design.  SCAD for short. She was the kind of party-girl who probably owned a tiarra and glued rhinestones on her camera.  Then, Isabelle had another unkind thought about this girl.  Was she really a serious artist?  After all, her photos seemed to be all about shoes!  Shoes?!  

   How serious could that be?  But then, of course Miss Savannah would probably be the only student to end up with a well-paying job after graduation.  She’d probably work for Vogue and get paid buckets of money and get lots of free clothes.  Oh, and of course, free shoes!  Stop it, Isabelle! She told herself. 
 “Thanks,” Michael said, lowering his eyes, smiling slightly.

            Isabelle stared at Michael.  She had just met him the day before at the Tuileries.  They had only had a brief conversation and when he tried to help her with her tripod, she had shooed him away.  So why was it she that now felt this sense of propriety?  It was the SCAD girl.  What was her name?  Charlotte.  That’s right.

            “I just love your photos,” Miss Savannah cooed.  “Mine are just so trivial by comparison.”

            Yeah, right, Isabelle wanted to say, but instead she let Michael comfort the southern belle.  “Not at all,” he told her.  “You photograph what you see.  I see trees and grass and leaves.  You see shoes.”

            Oh please!  Isabelle couldn’t stand it.  He was so nice.  In fact, he was too nice.  He was a niceness-slut, she decided.  I mean, he was nice to her, and now he was nice to the girl from SCAD.  Clearly, he was nice to everyone, so why should she like him?
     She decided she wouldn't like him.  There, she would just ignore him!  He could have Miss Charlotte Savannah and her shoes and her buckets of money for all she cared.  
     But then, she realized, she did care.
To be continued.....
P.S.  What turns Isabelle around again again into liking Michael?  Any suggestions?

Old Friends

As Lucy walked from the boulangerie to her photography class, she thought about her mother back home.  She had told Lucy so many stories about visiting Paris in the 1970's when she young.  And as Lucy crossed Boulevard St. Germaine, she imagined her mother on this very same street, wearing an elegant suit with a matching hat, and heels.  Lucy's mother hadn't been one of the typical hippie girls from her generation.  In fact, from the old photos Lucy used to stare at, dreaming of the past, Lucy understood that her mother was very elegant and never quite embraced the wild-child fashions of her time.  

Lucy sighed, nibbling on the baguette, and thought she was similar to her mother.  And certainly she was not like the free-spirited-zumba-dancing Trish or the worldly sophisticate, Isabelle.
No, Lucy believed in magic, miracles and true love.  She was meant for Peter, but now she took a big bite out of baker's crusty bread and thought she could be wrong about that.  The man at the boulangerie had been so sweet to her.  Still, a memory of her and Peter riding bikes flashed through her mind, as she continued down the Paris street, and she thought, no.  Peter and her were soul mates!

Lucy took a deep breath and ran up the steps, into the classroom where she discovered that Professor Kelly had brought in a new guest artist.  A woman.  A French woman, who seemed to focus in on her.

Lucy quickly joined the students, found a space on the wall and posted her photographs from the Tuileries.  She smiled at her photo of the fountain that she took the day before at the Tuileries.

The guest professor stood, relaxing in front of the open window and smiled at Lucy.  She didn't seem to notice her photographs, but rather she seemed to recognize Lucy, which was very strange, because Lucy had never seen this French woman in her life.

"Tell me," she said, still smiling.  "Lucy Anderson.  Are you related to a Joni Anderson who came to Paris in 1976?"

Lucy gulped.  "Yes," she said.  "That's my mother."

The French woman smiled.  "Ah, I knew her."  

And in that moment, Lucy realized that this trip to Paris was about more than simply becoming a better photographer.  It was about magic.

To be continued....

P.S.  Do you have any thoughts about Lucy's mother's adventures in Paris in the 1970's?

The Mysterious Monsieur Veuve Clicquot

     Trish woke up with a massive headache.  She opened one eye and looked around the room.  Where was she?  It was an enormous space with huge floor to ceiling windows, draped with velvet curtains that didn’t quite hide the fact that it was morning and the full blast of daylight was awaiting her, the sun impatiently calling her name and reprimanding her.  

     For what, she asked herself groggily.  For dancing the tango?  That’s not such a bad thing.  For drinking with Monsieur Veuve Clicquot?  

     For kissing Monsieur Veuve Cliquot!

     Naughty girl, she told herself, stretching and lifting her head up off the couch, smiling now at the thought of Monsieur Veuve Cliquot, the man who looked just like Clive Owen, only French. 

            Still, that wasn’t the thing that was itching at her subconscious, nagging her brain about some forgotten slight.  Oh my gosh, she thought.  Class!  Damnit!  Best and worst photos.  Bad, bad, bad, she scolded herself, getting up out of the makeshift bed.  What the heck happened last night?  She stood up, the room spinning slightly, her stomach growling and she realized, she was not wearing the Betsy Johnson sequin frock anymore, but instead she was wearing a bathrobe.  A silk Chinese red bathrobe.  Oh no, I am bad. What exactly happened with her and the tango-dancing Monsieur Veuve Clicquot!? 

            Better get dressed, she thought, searching for her sequin shoes, her own version of the ruby slippers.

   Yes, I'd better get the heck out of this place—this palatial, gorgeous apartment, located who knows where?  Trish tiptoed over to the window to have a look outside.  Something was off, in reverse, out of balance. In fact, she realized the Seine was not where it was supposed to be, and that she was no longer in Kansas, Toto.  No, somehow or another, she was not longer on the Left Bank and had landed on the Right Bank!

To be continued....

P.S.  What exactly did happen last night?  I'd love a suggestion that's not what we might immediately assume...

Best of Times. Worst of Times.

Isabelle woke up and looked outside the Left Bank apartment that she shared with Trish and Lucy.   

Both Trish and Lucy were gone.  It wasn't unusual for Lucy to be up early and out of the apartment, but when Isabelle looked at the little corner of the apartment where Trish slept, she noticed that the couch had never been pulled out.  In fact, there was no sign that Trish had ever returned home last night.  And the last time Isabelle and Lucy saw their friend was when she waved her away, insisting they go without her, because she and Monsieur Veuve Clicquot were dancing a tango.  Well, so much for the Three Muscateers, Isabelle thought, feeling more than a little bit disappointed.  As she ate the last of her yogurt and sipped her coffee, she could hear her mother's voice in her head saying, oh grow up! and so she tried to let go of this feeling, as she packed up and left the apartment, walking along the Seine to their classroom.    

It was early morning and still a bit dark out when Isabelle tiptoed into the empty classroom.  It wasn’t a real classroom, but a conference room inside the Hotel des Grand Ecoles, not far from Université de Paris and their apartment near Boulevard St. Germaine.  This is where Professor Kelly had arranged to hold this week’s "crit" session.  Next week, it might be held in a  café or a restaurant or even in a museum, but never in a real classroom at the university.  In fact, it seemed as if Professor Kelly had an aversion to university classrooms or perhaps it was Paris and somehow this transformed the ivy league septagenarian in such a way that he wanted to avoid the traditional classroom environment.  Paris did that to people.  It changed them.

            Isabelle breathed in and looked around at the walls.  Mostly, they were bare, clean white, waiting to be filled with yesterday’s photos from the Tuileries.  Best and worst shots, as Kelly had explained.  Isabelle took out her portfolio and looked at her prints.  There were five altogether and she thought they were all pretty bad, but still, she had to chose her best, or at least one that didn't scream out "amateur!"  After a few minutes, she decided it was the shot of the girl in the Tuileries, doing a cartwheel.

That was her best.  She also had a few shots of femmes d’un certain age walking through the park and she decided these were her worst.  She chose what she thought was the very worst one of the bunch.  You couldn’t even see the woman’s face, Isabelle mused.  Professor Kelly will agree.  This is the worst one.  But truth be told, Isabelle thought they were all awful.  Awful!

   

       “So you can’t decide which is your best?” It was Michael--the student from RISDY, the boy who was wearing corduroys yesterday, but was now wearing a pair of stylish chinos and a clean white shirt, looking remarkably handsome--now standing beside her.  “I can see your problem,” he continued.  “They’re all really good.”

            “No,” Isabelle insisted, feeling somewhat defensive and annoyed.  What was it with this boy that bothered her?  “I’m trying to find the worst one, because they’re all terrible!”

            And with this she felt her cheeks blush red hot, and she knew exactly what it was about this boy that bothered her.

To be continued....

P.S.  I think Michael should ask Isabelle for a favor.  What should it be?

Comfort Food

Lucy walked out onto the street the next day with a slight hangover.  It was all that Veuve Clicquot.
My goodness, Trish had a gift for finding interesting men.  Men with mysterious pasts.
Men who took women out for walks along the Seine and who had all sorts of interesting
things to say.  Men who looked like Clive Owen!

No, Lucy was not jealous.  It's just that Peter had had enough of her!  Anyway, that's what his text said.
And now, dawn was rising in Paris and she was feeling alone and heartbroken.
And hungry!

As luck would have it, the boulangerie on Boulevard St. Germaine had just opened its doors.

Ah, the delicious aroma of fresh-baked croissants, brioches and baguettes hit her the moment she entered the shop.

The handsome baker was just then taking out a tray of freshly baked baguettes.  He turned around and smiled at her and then stopped and shook his head, as if he disapproved of something.

"Vous êtes triste," he said.  You are sad, no?
"No!" Lucy cried out, feeling slightly indignant and annoyed that she was so easy to read, and then before she could hold her ground, she found herself suddenly breaking down in what seemed like an ocean of tears.
"Oui," she finally confessed, hiccuping.  Je suis triste.  I am sad."
"Here, this will help make you happy again."  And with that, the handsome baker handed her a fresh baked baguette, wrapped in the center with a bit of white paper, tied into a neat little twist.

The baguette was still warm from the oven, and smelled like a little bit of heaven.
"No more sad face!" the baker said, giving Lucy a white linen handkerchief to dry her tears.
"Merci, Monsieur," she said quickly, dabbing at her tears and then giving back his handkerchief.
"No, it's a gift for you, Mademoiselle," he told her, his wise brown eyes meeting her hazel eyes.

And for a moment, just a moment, Lucy seemed to forgot all about being sad.

...to be continued.

P.S.  Oh, and I'd love to give the baker a secret, to be revealed later--any ideas?

Meanwhile, in the South of France

Sorry, I'm a day late this week.  I intend to post on Mondays.  

Merci beaucoup for your patience!

Chapter Six

   Grandmothers know certain things.  Secrets.  And French grandmothers really know certain things.  This is what Isabelle’s grandmother, Margarite, was thinking that September afternoon when she dragged the enormous clay pot filled with rosemary closer to her back porch.  

     Soon she would bring it into the house, but not yet.  There was still time, she thought as she pulled her sweater closed and buttoned the middle two buttons.  The wind was coming up now—the vent l’autom—the warm wind in from Africa--lifting up sand and memories and sweeping up all sorts of detritus through the city streets of Toulouse. 

       But not so much where Margarite lived, far from the city, in the southwest, by the rive de Garonne, in the little village of Auvillar.

      Still, the wind did make Margarite wonder about her granddaughter, Isabelle.  

     She didn’t question why she was thinking about her now, she simple knew it meant something and that if she were patient, that something would reveal itself to her in all good time.  For now, Margarite needed to board up the window on the old stone house, to protect herself from the oncoming winds sweeping up from mysterious places.

To be continued....

P.S.  I would like Isabelle's grandmother to have a premonition about Isabelle.  Any ideas on what it might be?

The Dangers of Texting

Chapter Five

Lucy was happy for Trish.  Really.  Somehow, within three minutes of entering the LeCave, she had managed to find herself an adorable Frenchman.  And not only this, but the man looked a whole like like Clive Owen (except he was French).  Plus, he came with a bottle of champagne--Veuve Clicquot! He placed it gently on the table for Trish, Isabelle and Lucy to admire.

"Merci beaucoup," Isabelle smiled and then looked sideways at Trish, as if to say how did you manage this!?

"Meet Jean-Pierre," Trish announced, taking a seat.  "He's my new best friend!"

Jean-Pierre smiled at Trish.  He probably didn't understand what she was saying.  In fact, he didn't seem to speak much English, but it was clear that the man was smitten and completely charmed by her friend.  Ah, love, Lucy mused.

She remembered those days.  How long had it been since she felt like that?
Oh, that's right.  It was about ten minutes ago.
Just before they entered the Parisian club.
Just before she checked her phone.
Just before she received the text from boyfriend, Peter!
She kept replaying it in her mind.  It said:

ENOUGH ALREADY!

What did it mean?  Was he tired of her?  Was he annoyed by all her friendly texts from France?
Had he met another girl while back home in New York City?
And was he biking with this new girl, the way they used to bike together?
Despite the popping of the champagne cork and the laughter and the music and ooh la la all around, Lucy couldn't help but remember her early days with Peter.

Their life had been so full of romance and love and fun and now, it was enough.  

Enough, already!?

"Earth to Lucy!" Trish laughed holding up her champagne flute for a toast.

Lucy quickly lifted her glass, and pretended to be happy.

Isabelle made the toast in French, "a vos amours!"  

And then Trish, Jean-Pierre, Isabelle and Lucy all took a sip.  

"Yum!" Trish said, turning to Isabelle.  "So, what did we just toast to, anyway?"

Isabelle smiled, "a vos amours means to your loves."

And this is when Lucy began to cry, because her love had had enough.  

 And suddenly, she felt as if her heart was frozen.

.....to be continued.

P.S.  I would like to have Isabelle and Michael (the boy in their photography group) have a funny encounter during their next class.  Any suggestions?

The Story Begins

Introducing something new:  A blog in stories.

Paris Changes Everything 

CHAPTER ONE

Isabelle was feeling a little off-kilter.  Perhaps it was the handsome man staring at her from across the promenade.  He had been watching her since she first tried to set up her camera on the little tripod.

         Then again, perhaps it was all the memories that were flooding back.  This was her first visit to Paris since she was nine years old, when she had come to the city of lights with her mother.  The two of them did what most typical tourists do.  Her mother grew up in France, but married Isabelle’s American father, and she wanted Isabelle to know Paris.  And so, they visited the Eiffel Tower—and actually climbed to the very top.  They had a citron pressé at the outdoor tables at Café de Flore.  They went shopping at Bon Marché, Printemps and of course, Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussman where Isabelle’s mother had bought her a pretty teal blue beret.  They had afternoon tea at Ladurée and later walked all the way from the Louvre, past the voluptuous statues, and green-green lawns to the Tuileries, past the topiaries and fountains where couples sat nestled, embracing or sunbathing or sharing a bottle of wine, nestled together in the little metal chairs and enjoying the view.

        And this is where Isabelle found herself at this very moment—standing in the promenade with her camera and tripod, trying to anchor the spindley legs into the sandy gravel.  Here she was—at  twenty-eight years old--and she found herself back in the same spot.  Only now she was an exchange student in the School of Visual Arts graduate program, studying photography and having a Paris adventure with her friends, Trish and Lucy. 

      Isabelle watched her friends from across the fountain, weaving and dashing and clicking away, shooting as if photography was some kind of modern dance.  But this was not the case for Isabelle.  She wanted to find the quiet beauty of the scene, the balance or at least a way to anchor this darn tripod to the earth.  Before she had left the States, her father had given her a Canon Rebel.  He insisted she was ready for something more professional than her usual Canon Powershot, which was delicate and light and easy to handle.  This Canon Rebel was none of those things.  In fact, while she had finally stabilized the new camera onto the tripod, the legs suddenly toppled over, and just as suddenly, the handsome man who had been staring at her earlier, leaped to catch her Canon Rebel, as easily as if he had just caught a fly ball in his own backyard.  He handed it to her and smiled. 

         “Thanks,” Isabelle said, taking the camera from him.

 

         And he smiled back at her.  “Piece of cake,” he told her and then introduced himself as Michael.  “I’m in the program too,” he told her.  “From RISD.” 

         

        Funny, Isabelle thought, she hadn’t noticed him during orientation.  She wasn’t sure how she had missed him. He was different from most of the hipster-photo guys with their faux-nerdy eyeglasses and porkpie hats.  No, this guy looked as if he had just stepped off a mountain range where he was taking Ansel Adams style shots of the wilderness.

         “RISD?” Isabelle repeated, trying to buy some time, because the truth is, she was feeling a little breathless.  Who would have imagined that there might be a real man hiding in plain sight among the artsy-boy crowd. 

         It had been a while since Isabelle felt that lovely tingly feeling and in fact, she had practically given up on love, but then looking at this man—yes, man, not boy, she realized something.  And that something was this:

         Paris changes everything.

..to be continued.