Digging through my desk recently I came across a long-forgotten folder of sketches I’d written when Alan and I were living in Paris in the mid 1980’s. Here’s one of them.
Contented marriage to a handsome American man hasn’t keep me from observing the beauty of Parisian men.
I started observing my first day in Paris, one of those rare bright February days when everyone strolls the boulevards to get reacquainted with the sun. The Champs-Elysees was packed. Our taxi was stuck in traffic. He jogged up to the corner from Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, hesitated a bit, then thread his way in front of us, through the honking jam of buses, cars and taxis. Light brown hair blown back from his face, except for the comma that fell over his forehead. Strong square jaw, high cheek bones and heavy-lidded eyes. He must be a movie star or at least a male model, I thought then. Now I know he was probably an architect, bank clerk or accountant. Handsome men aren’t that uncommon in Paris. I see at least one a day.