We’ll always have Paris. Words heard as a cliché yet strangely, even encouragingly, optimistic. Jackie and I are beginning our third week in the French capital city during a surprisingly fantastic streak of fine weather surrounded by the requisite tourist mobs, literary melancholy types, sidewalk hogging femme fatales and most ubiquitous of all cigarette smoking university students wrapped in tangles on every park bench and café chair.
The G20 summit is strangling traffic with motorcades of important folks "guessing” at how to solve the world’s financial crises or inciting riots by those who believe they can better fix what the G20’s have already screwed up. This gathering is happening in a country where the 35-hour workweek is a sacred right and the new retirement age of 62 from 60 is likely to bring to an end to Sarkosy’s stay as president of France. While preaching the need for enforced thrift or “austerity” our walks on the cobblestones of Paris suggest that only the finest hotels, absolute bastions of haute couture, like the Crillion, Meurice, George V or Ritz will do for the international money “managers” stay in the city of light.
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We’ll always have Paris. Words heard as a cliché yet strangely, even encouragingly, optimistic. Jackie and I are beginning our third week in the French capital city during a surprisingly fantastic streak of fine weather surrounded by the requisite tourist mobs, literary melancholy types, sidewalk hogging femme fatales and most ubiquitous of all cigarette smoking university students wrapped in tangles on every park bench and café chair. 
