Parisian night music, wafting up to my open window from the restaurants and bars below. A symphony of multiple conversations playing off, through, and over each other, together rising in volume, dropping down to near silence, rising again, pierced by shrieks of laugher and deeper rumbles of amusement. The music softens as the night deepens into morning and people gradually wend their ways homeward and the city sleeps.

I love lying in bed and listening. The windows are near sound proof here in the Relais St. Germain, but why? The cool, rain washed air and the intense joyous chatter lull me to sleep.

Another very good day. A little more active this time around. A perfect breakfast, of course.

Followed by an inadvertent, but brief nap, also of course.

Around noon we headed over to the Musée Rodin, one of our favorites. It was hot and crowded, but not so hot and crowded as August, so there is that. Also hotter than it needed to be since I was still dressed for morning temps.

Sitting in the rose gardens, meditating on the intense power of The Thinker; standing before the Gates of Hell, feeling the agony of the twisted figures; wandering the huge rooms of the mansions, undwarfed by the amazing passion of The Kiss — I feel so humbled, so grateful, for the genius of really great art.

I can’t use my words, so I’ll let the work speak.

Home again, to cool air conditioning and a bath. Jerry went across the street and bought a couple of koignettes from Maison Larnicol. We didn’t want to spoil dinner with lunch but the buttery caramelized pastry was the right bite to stave off hunger. Besides, I’d been here three days and hadn’t had one yet. I’ve been eating less sugar but some things just aren’t right.

Dinner was downstairs in Le Comptoir, the reason we started staying in this lovely hotel. Come for the fabulous dinner, stay for the amazing breakfast.

We started off sandwiched between two other tables at the open door, so tightly that my personal alarm system kept signaling that I was too close to objects on either side, one of whom was singing Frank Sinatra with the accordion player on the street. There is some claustrophobia that drugs can’t subdue. We got up to leave, forsaking what promised to be a wonderful meal (Jerry is the best husband ever) and the maitre d’ decided to give up two of the outside seats he’d been reserving. It was perfect. Ideal people-watching, people who watch right back, peering into your plate to see what you are eating as if you are street art. It’s great.

Here’s the menu. Mine was adjusted to dispense with the meat.

And when evening temperatures dipped they brought me a blanket to wrap up in.

Cozy and romantic and only steps from home and bed, and the murmuring night music outside my window.