the people of Paris

The 40-ish man and his younger assistant at the crêpe place with a yellow awning on Avenue MacMahon, about two blocks from the Arc de Triomphe. He spoke a little English and was eager to try it out on us. Knew the Chicago Bulls. Looked Eastern European to me, but he said he was from a country in southern Africa. A generally pleasant man, but with an edge.

The 30-something woman who owned the restaurant with the clean, dark interior that reminded me of a mill. Dark wood, brick, some iron contraption hanging behind the wood stove. A built-in bookcase with a selection of books for lone customers to read. An adorable elderly gentleman eating by himself at a table by the window, reading a newspaper, smiling shyly at us as he passed on his way to and from the bathroom. The proprietess a stout woman, pretty and friendly. The blue ink of tattoos showing on her upper arms. Clearly well-liked by the neighborhood, as she seemed to know almost everyone who passed and many stopped in for a quick chat.

The small, dark-haired waiter who caught us hesitating outside his restaurant. He must´ve been taking out the garbage. He offered his arm to Shannon, saying in English, "Come on! Let´s go!" I made her take his arm and he ushered us into the restaurant, depositing us just inside the door and calling to the waitress, "Two more!" before disappearing into the kitchen. The waitress seemed a little shy. She smiled and blushed with pleasure when I told her it was the best meal I´d eaten in years.

Song Ming Ang from Singapore who stayed at our hotel in the room above ours. I´d heard him stomping around and sneezing loudly the night before, but I didn´t know it was him until much later. We met him for the first time at breakfast on Saturday. He broke into our conversation about Cat's Eye with, "Sounds like a good book," and asked if he could join us at our table. He´d studied English literature at George Washington U in D.C.. Tall, friendly, outgoing, a bit of a chatter. Might be the sort of person to ask for just a little more than you are comfortable giving.

Guillaume, whom I didn´t recognize without his beard. His hair much darker, longer than I remembered. He a little thinner. His fingers shook almost imperceptibly, his smile a little nervous. After about a half an hour of conversation I noticed he smelled of pheremones or garlic. Perhaps from the dinner party he´d gone to the night before.

The graveyard shift clerk at the Hôtel Voltaire République: tall, thin, glasses. Looked possibly Middle Eastern, but said he was from Nigeria. On the first night he asked me for my name in exchange for the room key. We spoke in both English and French. I tried to explain that my name might not be written down. I said "She didn´t ask," but he thought I´d said, "You shouldn´t ask," and then I accidently used tu instead of vous, but it took me a while to figure out what had happened. The morning of our departure I disturbed him to ask what time it was. He thought I was having trouble sleeping and invited me to sleep downstairs with him. "What?" I asked. "Nothing," he said. He double-checked the wake-up call for me and asked me what time we planned to check out, and when we weren´t downstairs at 4:30am he called up to the room to check on us. Later we asked him to call a cab for us, and he told Shannon to go outside to try to flag one down but said to me, "You stay here. So I can look at you." He smiled. "No, I am just kidding." He patted my hand, his wedding ring tapping against my knuckle.