Just as we were recovering from yesterday's microwave temperatures, the sky's cataracts burst open. "Paris est une ville bizarre," said our taxi driver today as we made our way back to our hotel after being surprised by a torrential downpour by the Seine. "Yesterday it was 32 degrees, today it's 18. We are all going to fall ill." And Emiliano was the first to go down with fever – with Elisabetta a close second. So we won't be meeting friends or John Calder tonight.
What I said yesterday about Paris was obviously caused by the high temperatures. I love the city and love the people. Yet, the prices I quoted yesterday (in response to yesterday's Parisian commentator) were not from around Notre Dame but from an anonymous bar-brasserie on rue de l'Hopital – and a more expensive bill was collected today near the Luxembourg Gardens. It didn't use to be like that seven or eight years ago.
Finally, my recollection of the Musée d'Orsay is also different. I don't remember having to queue for an hour an a half on a Tuesday afternoon in late May just to get in...
Back to Albion now.