My adventure in Paris begins on October 10, theatre/music/theatre, testing my irresoluble vertigo alone; now, from 4 rue Nocard, just steps from the ominous Ministry of the Interior, the bridge at Bir Hakeim (an added frisson for a boy adversely startled by Last Tango in Paris! at the age of sixteen), the site of the Revolution's killing field (Le Grenelle outside the city walls of the Farmers' General), and the erased Velodrome d'Hiv where their neighbors were rounded up one morning and inhumanely corralled under the eyes of parisien commuters on the elevated ligne 6.
