Ah me!
It`s up and down in kind of a bittersweet way here.
How am I supposed to walk these streets, in the light parisian, winter drizzle?
Every bar beckons like an old friend, to have a glass of wine and a smoke.
And me, I speak just enough cheesy French that folks seem to find me cute.
But what good is any of it, if I`ll be less than a ghost here in a couple of weeks?

Bravely I took a bus home tonight: It was the number 69 from Invalides to La Bastille,
via rue St. Dominique - Quai du Louvre - Faubourg St Antoine. I had to change to the number
76, and I asked the driver where in the massive Bastille roundabout I should debark to get "mon bus correspondant". He was very nice, and replied that it would be the "premier arret".
I went back to my seat on the near empty vehicle, and settled in to enjoy the movie
of Paris night going by my window. When my stop was up, I stepped down from the coach and walked towards the bus shelter; I noticed the driver was peering into his rearview mirror as if searching for something, then saw me, smiled, gave a thumbs-up and drove off.

He was making sure I`d gotten off at the right stop. I was touched.