People are fascinating no matter where you are—The Louvre, Sacre Coeur, on the street. Texting teens—are they the same in France as they are in Tucson?
A musician on the street in Paris plays Pachobel Canon in D— how long has he had this gig? How much does he pull in a day? Does he play when it rains? It is, after all, Paris in the springtime.
Here’s more grist for the writer’s mill. Meeting a fellow Toastmaster in Paris. An instant connection because we’re in this wonderful international organization.
I watch a young child at the Louvre. She listens to her teacher who gestures to a large statue of a beautiful, but quite naked man. She looks at the teacher; she looks at the statue. She lifts her leg to form an easel for her small pad. Bending over to begin her drawing, her long curly hair falls forward covering her face and her drawing. My group is moving on. I back away and miss the masterpiece.
I’m a fortunate writer who has had the opportunity to travel to this beautiful country and meet 100 people on a boat in one week, and chat with our charming waitress at a tucked away restaurant— How old was she really? Was she in love with the chef? Does she like her job? Has she had the good fortune to travel as I have?
These ideas need to simmer for a while. Ingredients for a short fiction piece going on the back burner.