Still in the weeds with work (which is fun and engrossing, but cursing myself nonetheless for atrocious timing). On the other hand, Paris is so new to me that even mundane chores are adventures -- doing laundry in a Lavomat (where, instead of feeding coins into individual washers and dryers, one buys both detergent and machine time from a central vending thingie), selling a used book, requesting more shampoo and clean glasses...

For lunch, I walked to Rue de Rosiers, where a man biked through the crowds while repeatedly honking a horn that sounded disconcertingly chirpy. (I initially thought he was smashing a rubber ducky against his bike's handlebars.) At Sacha Finkelsztajn (The Yellow Shop), women in yellow aprons ask you what you want, and whether you'll be dining in or eating it at home or on the street. I took my meat-stuffed latke for "la rue," and oh, was it tasty.

It has been a beautiful night: the BYM placed assorted provisions into our bags, most of them purchased yesterday at a Monoprix: a bottle of burgundy, a hunk of cheese, a package of Parma ham, a sleeve of Veudebert toasties, a jar of Nutella, an apple, and a bag of "roasted chicken and thyme"-flavored potato chips (which really do smell like roast chicken, which appalled the BYM no end, even though he was the one who couldn't resist picking it up in the first place). We walked to one of the banks of the Seine and found a spot amidst all the twentysomethings picknicking there (as the BYM put it, we were both too old and not hip enough to be there, but we're on holiday and neither of us actually cares). And after we were done eating, I rested my head in his lap and gazed up at the copper leaves against the deep blue sky.