THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS

Manhattan, New York. May 8, 1940.

Claire Harris Stone breathed in the faint scent of roses from the courtyard garden below as her yielding body swayed to the strains of "In the Mood" drifting out the open French doors. The sounds of the orchestra inside her Manhattan brownstone blended with the late-night rumble of traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Buoyed by the Veuve Clicquot champagne, she felt as though she drifted above her partner as their gliding shoes whispered against the balcony floor. He held her tight, his hands warming her body through her thin silk dress. Her arms were draped around his shoulders.

He was tall. That was nice. And he knew how to dance; even better.

"You're dreaming, Claire," von Richter said.

"Of you." Claire opened her eyes.

The Last Time I Saw Paris
Lynn Sheene


I love, love, love this book. I procrastinated on finishing the last few pages of the book because I didn't want it to end. Ms. Sheene has written a superlative first novel. I eagerly await her second, Under Paris Skies.

I've been recommending this book right and left, have purchased a copy after obtaining it first from the library, and have ordered one for a friend. A very, very good read.

HOTEL PASTIS

"The trouble with these divorces," Ernest said as he put the tea tray on the packing case, "is the refurnishing. Look at that . We're not going to find another one like that. Wasted on her, of course."

Simon Shaw looked up and watched one of the moving men packing the Hockney in bubble wrap. As the man bent over, he displayed the traditional emblem of the British labourer, the buttock cleavage revealed by the separation of t-shirt from grimy, low-slung jeans. Ernest sniffed and went back to the kitchen, picking his way through the piles of expensive relics that were destined for the ex-Mrs. Shaw's bijou cottage in Eaton Mews South.
Hotel Pastis
Peter Mayle

Amusing and captivating. A great vacation read--lighthearted and fast moving. Especially good when read while traveling in Provence and Paris...

LUNCH IN PARIS

Elizabeth Bard knows the power of a first paragraph...

I slept with my French husband halfway through our first date. I say halfway because we had finished lunch but not yet ordered coffee. It turned out to be a decisive moment, more important for my future happiness than where I went to college, or years with a good shrink. The question was posed lightly. It looked like rain. We could sit it out in a café or, since his apartment was not far, he could make tea.
Lunch in Paris
Elizabeth Bard
reader's guide


And a great throwaway line when you feel someone is reaching beyond their station in life,

"Tu pètes plus haut de ton cul."

p. 58

An idiomatic phrase that means literally, "To fart above your ass." Or, slang for "Too big for your britches."