This week I’ve been looking at sculptures and paintings of the “Three Graces” (I’m on a mythology kick) and came across a bursting-forth version by Niki de Saint Phalle, whom I know very little about and think of never. Then, in noontime class, today, Sally hands me a postcard I sent her 10/14/93 from Paris. “Sally: Well, I made it. Now I’m sitting in a café, the sound of pinball and murmuring help me muse over a glass of wine, as I watch the rain and people pass by. Phrase book and map are barely getting me along. So far, all I can remember is “Je voudrais…” (I would like) and merci merci merci. I flew from Dublin to London yesterday, then took an all night bus to here, so I’m fairly out of it. Every time I get someplace new all I want to do is go home but in a day all I want to do is explore. My walking shoes are sopped; soon I’ll return to my shoebox-sized room and collapse and write. Yes, you have to smoke here. And in Dublin, too. I'l clean out driving back across Arizona in a few weeks. For dinner? The best bread, a pear, and some goat cheese. This wandering has its fun moments.” So who’s on the front but an elephant, “Sculptures animees de Tinguely et Nicky de St Phalle.” So I have a Niki thing going on. And I am so overdue for a long solitary trip.