up four floors from the Rue Jussieu,
no elevator but a view
of the Eiffel Tower,
|View from our window|
that I could touch both walls, bright paintings
and warm bedding; in the bathroom,
a towel warmer of simple rods.
|The tiny kitchen|
very well organized
at a streetside stand, tosssed
batter, sizzling butter, dazzling crepes
before our eyes.
We stood in line at the bakery around the corner
for warm, crusty French baguettes.
Across the street, we could descend
to the subway and travel to any district,
our French good enough for the day's touring,
then home, Allen translating the news for me,
his voice low, then slower
and slower as the newscaster shifted
to matters of importance.