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couldn’t think about that at the moment. My head was pounding and I needed some sleep—real sleep, not airplane nodding. This hotel was not exactly what I’d had in mind as a base of operations, but it would do for now. Hell, dowdy French hotels short on amenities but rich in character had been the sites of some of my most delightful adventures.
    I asked for a room and, to forestall any problems, paid for a few days in advance. I pulled the envelope with the Thomas Cook money orders earmarked for Aunt Vivian out of my carry-on bag and committed it to the hotel safe. Mom had asked if it wouldn’t be better to buy traveler’s checks in my own name, but I wanted to guarantee I wouldn’t be tempted to start dipping into those funds for my own use. In Vivian’s place, I don’t think I would’ve appreciated any messenger messing about with my inheritance, even if it was a totally unexpected gift from heaven.
    I splurged on the best room in the house. Even so, the toilet was down the hall. The bidet had been cracked and repaired half a dozen times. The bureau smelled faintly of mildew. But the room was a good size, and the view wasn’t bad. Not bad at all: my room, on the sixth floor, looked out over the busy square with its ancient copper fountain. I put in five minutes at the open window just looking at the people, pulling the air into my chest—and thinking about Aunt Vivian, somewhere out there. I didn’t know yet what kind of shape I’d find her in. But I did know she wouldn’t be high stepping in her designer jeans and smart black pumps. She wouldn’t be laughing her tantalizing laugh that put lights in her clear brown eyes. She wouldn’t be young anymore.
    I thought, too, of my first trip to Paris and all the subsequent ones; of the friends I’d once had here, all dispersed to other places, other lives, now; of my summer in Provence; the meals, the men; the just plain fun. I’d been happy, ecstatic, in Paris—drunk on it—and yet I’d also known that peculiar tristesse that could fasten around your heart like a vise, for no particular reason, and suddenly make you feel so very alone.
    Tiredness overtook me then. I closed the shutters tight. I turned back the covers on the creaky iron bed and slipped between the ironed white sheets. And then—darkness.
    The trick is not to let yourself sleep too long lest you fall victim to jet lag. It was the only travel tip I could ever remember. You’ve got to crash and allow the old ankles to lose the swelling that results from sitting constricted in one place for so long. Nap, yes. But you mustn’t sleep too long, or you’ll be on the way back home before your body clock is running right again.
    I was groggy when I pulled myself out of dreamland—and ravenous. I opened the metal shutters. Pam! Night had fallen. Those inimitable lights were all around me, and, down below, the canopies of a thousand cafes. I went and cleaned up quickly in the communal shower room and then jumped into some black trousers and a leotard. I threw my long raincoat over that and I was ready to roll.
    I did a quick turn around the Pantheon, where I had often gone in the dark of night to sit and think and sometimes consume a couple of boules of rich ice cream purchased at one of the carts dotting the landscape. Then I headed back across the square and the boulevard St. Michel, pulsating with young people.
    I hit boulevard St. Germain, or rather it hit me. It was Friday night and the street was hopping. Traffic was the predictable nightmare. I took a deep breath and ran, snaked, bullied my way across the street, heedless of the color of the traffic lights. I headed north then, away from the worst of the crowds. I had decided to eat at the Café Cloche, which was on the pricey side, but my mouth was watering for a couple of their beautiful spring lamb chops. I remembered that they didn’t take