The days in Paris are dwindling. I can tell by my pill case, which has acted as a kind of weird advent calendar. Alex and Claire get back from California tomorrow with the boys and I have only a few more things on my list that I still want to do. I’ve been having a great time, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that it would be better if I weren’t alone.

The other day, between the costume jewelry exhibit and the cooking class, I sat at an overpriced, typical cafe terrace across from the Comédie-Française to have some lunch. Great for people watching. To my left was an English gentleman, who spent most of his time on his phone and two tables to my right were two women from LA. How did I know that? One of them was telling the other about how her boyfriend accused her of cheating because some guy she knew from years ago sent her a message on Snapchat and then she found out that he was actually cheating on her. If she hadn’t said that she was from LA, I would have guessed. A cheap version of a Kardashian with competing designer logos.

At some point, another American woman sits at the table next to me. She ordered an omelet and toast. It took a moment for the waiter to understand the toast part. We both had our lunches (I had a croqué monsieur). The English guy left followed by the LA ladies, and the woman next to me asked where I was from. I said California, and she, with a sense of relief, said, “an American”. This was her first trip to Paris. We were about the same age, and we had a lovely conversation.

She was from Toledo and had lots of questions once she found out I had been here before. First, the croqué monsieur. I said, it’s a grilled cheese with ham. If you want an egg on top, croqué madame. She was worried about what to wear and asked how you could tell if someone was French. I told her you can’t, but if they looked like they knew where they were going, they were probably French. As far as clothes, they dress for comfort, although, they do have a certain sense of style.

She was traveling with her niece and family. My guess is she was acting as a kind of chaperone/babysitter for the children. They just arrived and the family were having lunch somewhere more French nearby, and she wanted something simple rather than what they were having. We talked about escargot, and she was having none of it. I told her it’s all about the sauce. Then a very well dressed man walked by, smoking, and we both agreed, he was French. We were probably wrong.

She then shared that her boyfriend had died in December, and the trip was a way for her to help get away from her grief. We shared stories – David’s stroke and passing, her boyfriend’s cancer, we both shed some tears. She was impressed when I told her I had to run to a cooking class, we hugged and said goodbye. She was a hugger, and I appreciated that. Thank you Susan VanPelt from Toledo.

Today I went to the Foundation Louis Vuitton to see exhibits of works by Henri Matisse and Ellsworth Kelly. Both exhibits were exceptional. David and I went last November to see the Mark Rothko exhibit, but I hadn’t really seen the building. Lots of stairs, and it was cold and rainy last time. A Frank Gehry building, which was beautiful. I especially loved the auditorium. I would have loved to have seen it in action, and the Kelly commissions that were in the space made it all the more special. Next time, I’ll go for a concert. I resisted buying the Palm Springs paper toy book. I’ll be home soon enough.