FROM PARIS VII

The heat.

Monday, arriving at the Orly airport.

I feel a happy air of tedium moving along familiar pathways, standing, waiting—knowing exactly where to go and what to do. No, not quite a tourist—not anymore. Seasoned with some special something that says, “I’ve been here, I’ve done this. I do this.”

Humbled immediately by the disorganized process of calling a G7 t…