It’s raining for the second straight day in Paris, which means that all but two of the courts at the French Open are covered. The temperature is in the low 60s, an improvement over the other night, when it was 10 degrees cooler and Daniil Medvedev appeared for his match in leggings. Cool and damp is fine for Welsh rugby; not so much for tennis. Especially when the moisture makes the courts unplayable. The announcers all express sympathy for the players, made to start and stop, and then wait indefinitely. And I think: Yes, yes, it must be tough for them – but what about the tourists? The people who saved for years to visit the City of Light – at the end of May! In the era of global warming! – and now find themselves huddling in doorways or sipping hot chocolate in bright cafes. Luckily, they’re in a city with decent museums.
I’m reading the memoir of Hilary Bradt, founder of Bradt travel guides – in preparation for my interview with her next week at Books & Books – and was amused to learn that, in her early days of budget travel, when rental car companies charged by the mile, she and her husband would occasionally drive on Texas country roads in reverse.
I gave a talk last week and during the Q&A a woman asked me something I’d never been asked: “What place have you been that you would never return to?”
I thought for a very brief moment, and then said unequivocally: “Myanmar.”
Before boarding the flight with the well-decorated seatmate, we had lunch at Legal Sea Foods. Our table was up against the window, with a view of the runway and, off in the distance, the dome of the capitol. One of the things that makes Washington such an attractive city to visit is the proximity of the airport.
Our waiter arrived, apologized for making us wait, and explained the reason: “I was in a passionate discussion,” he said.
“What about?” I asked him.
“History,” he said, giving me another reason to love Washington.
Flying back from D.C. last week, we had window and middle seats. The man in the aisle seat wore a baseball cap, a sleeveless white shirt and white shorts that revealed most of his thighs. This extensive exposure of skin was apparently due to the fact that it was extravagantly tattooed, on both legs and arms. The vast ornamentation made his baseball cap – the wearing of which I usually deplore indoors – seem almost modest.
Our hotel on Dupont Circle was a few blocks south of the Washington Hilton, which Saturday night hosted the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. So I was not that surprised to see men in black tie and women in evening gowns. What puzzled me was the fact that they were not heading to the Hilton, but congregating on the terrace of our hotel and filling the Japanese restaurant across the street. A hostess at the former told us that these were alternate parties. Apparently, people who did not get invitations to the correspondents’ dinner dressed up anyway and went out on town. Following the Oscars, there are after-parties; in Washington, there are during-parties.