I was in Paris last weekend. The main intent was to meet my cousin and his family who live in London and were visiting Paris over the weekend. I had not seen them in years; Paris seemed like a good meeting place.
It was a short journey from Brussels, about an hour and half. On the adjacent seat the middle-aged lady, of Spanish or South American origin, appeared stiff and serious; conversation seemed improbable. I spent time looking out at the rolling fields, green and yellow and occasionally punctuated by windmills of the modern kind, and looking through my tiny “Artistic Paris” guidebook, trying to decide how to spend the afternoon before meeting family for dinner.