In Paris, I stretched and blinked into the softness of Saturday afternoon. The rain’d stopped by then, and Julia Sarr was singing, low, in the still air. It was that kind of stillness, you know?, that floating bliss?, and for a second I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming.

There were pizzas and Prosecco later, a train and a train away, and then the winged boy in the Bastille, golden in the night.

Sunday morning, I was reading comics in bed while the boy in the kitchen called out to ask if I wanted a Nutella tartine or a raspberry one. “Tous les deux,” I said, and then he brought out a pot of tea as well.

Seems like spring has sprung, finally, so it is warm enough for a girl to walk about bare-legged in metallic purple pumps. Sunday, the 21 bus took us to the Jardin de Luxembourg, where little boys and little girls floated littler sailboats in the fountain. À pied means we followed our feet to Gérard Mulot, where the boy pointed towards the macarons and said: “Et prends un passion-basilic, ou ptetre deux.” He turned his back, then—so innocent, he is! So trusting!—and suddenly we were walking out of the shop with two passion-basilic, an orange-gingembre, a rose-groseille, an electric citron, and a dreamy purple mûre in a little pink box. The other pink box—because you know there was another pink box—held an amaryllis, because of the name, and because the amaryllis is fresh raspberries on a macaroon floor propping up a macaroon ceiling.

Right before we left, the boy gestured at a white-haired gent and said, in my ear: “C’est lui.” “Monsieur Mulot?” I said. “Oh my god,” I said, because sometimes you get so excited you can’t speak French, “this is so huge! Mais qu’est-ce qu’on doit faire avec ces renseignements??” “We should take a photo!” I said, and the boy laughed, and then gently but firmly steered me outside.

This reminds me that a couple of weeks ago in London, the boy leaned across the table at Carluccio’s and very quietly said, “There is a pop star sitting right behind you.” So calm, he is. It turned out it was M.I.A. “Oh my god!” I said. “This is so huge! What should I do with this information?” He said I could turn around and look, but I knew if I did, she would immediately look up and make eye contact right then, I have that sort of luck. And then I would only have had the wits about me to say: “Galang galang galang.”

Sunday in Paris, with M.I.A. nowhere in sight and M. Mulot hard at work in his atelier, there was time for a late-afternoon picnic by the sea. We sat on the mossy stone by the Square du Vert-Galant on the Ile de la Cité, opposite the sapeurs-pompiers barge, while the wind blew on the water and the tourist boats sailed by. I had my shoes off, because I had nowheres else to be.