It’s a rainy night in Paris.

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I can think of nothing sweeter than to wander the streets of Paris on a cold February night with rain falling. I’ve been doing a lot of that and now I’ve stepped into a bar at Place de la Contrescarpe for a whiskey. It’s the bar where I met an Argentinian woman when I was 19 and she was wearing a red coat and she was very sad. That was when I secretly thought I was a modern day Hemingway. He used to live not far from that bar. Anyway I’m not in Paris to meet any Argentinian women or to impersonate an American. I’m just passing through and tomorrow I’m hoping a train will take me to Normandy where I’ll wander the streets of Le Havre in the rain and do a bit more reminiscing. But when I’m in La Havre I’ll miss Paris and it’s rain, and the lights of the city shining off the river and everything looking blurred and smudged. Tonight I’ll sleep with the window and curtains open, or at least I’ll lie on top of the bed: sleep doesn’t strike me as a very good option.