There are some of the biggest leaves in the world fallen from trees on the Rue de Furstenberg, around the corner from La Derniere Goutte, a marvelous wine shop where they hold tastings on Saturdays.
Does anyone know that lovely little thoroughfare? I walked there today, thinking how strange it seems that turning leaves don't seem to captivate the French the way they do Americans -- I guess because there are no bright red maples in the palette here. French reds are in Beaunes and Burgundies, in slices of rare roast duck, in cherry compote served with fromage blanc.
A sure sign of fall: the U.S. elections. I don't feel removed because the outcome is of such pressing importance to people all over the world, and not least to the French. I thought of hitting American hot spots in Paris like Harry's bar and Joe Allen in the wee hours of tomorrow morning to find out the results, but decided I needed my beauty sleep. Besides, it's in the hands of the gods now.