My own crossing of Paris left me indifferent. Yet nothing was missing – housewives in flowery dresses and youths on rollerblades, revving buses, messengers cursing on their scooters. The Place de I’Opéra, straight out of a Dufy canvas. The treetops foaming like surf against glass building fronts, wisps of cloud in the sky. Nothing was missing, except me. I was elsewhere.
