My blogging mojo is not what it should be these days. And let's just face it. Even in a storied place like Paris, there are days when nothing really seems, well, blogworthy. Out and about this weekend, it seemed that every thought I had was one I had written about before:
dreary wet weather,
and then when the rain stopped, the light amid the crazy clouds in the sky over the Right Bank;
the puppeteer on Line 6,
riding the 63 bus,
a visit to the American Library to restock on books and DVDs,
going to half a dozen places and still failing to find an everyday item,
even the miracle of ever delicious bread from a Parisian boulangerie.
Perhaps I should just think of it as time spent reliving my greatest hits?