A Nice Fling is Hard to Find

Two hours later. . .

Tommy and I are taking a break. We’re supposed to be walking around for four hours but it’s a little cramped in there, and I keep getting accidentally pushed and stepped on and I started to feel a little claustrophobic and panicked that I would break something on the first real day. It’s not like I break something once a week or anything, but I’ve broken enough bones to know that I’d like to try to stay in one piece if I can. I’ve broken two toes, my index finger, and my right leg (in separate stair, locker, gym-class, and bicycle-related incidents).

Anyway, Tommy wanted to check out the Louvre architecture from outside, and I said I’d go with him. Becca and Harold don’t seem to mind admiring other tourists’ heads. Or maybe they’re admiring each other instead . . . .

I’m lying on the grass, getting some sun. Ah. The air here smells so French. Like a mixture of spice, grass, and cigarette smoke.

Tommy’s around somewhere taking pictures. He has a fancy camera he bought at a garage sale on his street. Unlike all the other cameras on this trip, it’s not digital. He brought two dozen rolls of film and plans on using the closet in his basement as a darkroom.

Now he’s taking pictures of . . . me? No, something behind me. Pigeons?

I wish Pierre would come out here and say something to me in French.