I have always enjoyed the company of older people. When I was a little girl I would sit for hours with heavy lids, listening to the conversations and trying to follow the gestures exchanged between my parents and their unique assortment of bohemian intellectual confidants. I was much more eager to sit at the adult table than with the kids who somehow I found too simple-minded in their approach to life. It was the elders who had truly lived, as they spoke with great enthusiasm about the pleasures and travails of life which seemed so fascinating to my young mind. Much more interesting than a history book are the reflections of someone who has lived the story.
In Paris, a city of such remarkable history, I have found an elderly companion with whom to share it. Her origins are Polish and her experiences are plenty. Recently we attended the Grand Palais for the Renoir exhibit. It seems fitting to peruse the work of this venerated Impressionist with a woman of class and culture. Though he is not a favorite of mine, as the work does not move me like that of Cézanne or Degas, it was a genuinely historic experience. Our next rendezvous will include an aged whisky and tales of life in 1970’s Paris. 
Though I must admit as I become older and (I like to believe) wiser, and this new chapter continues to be written, I appreciate more and more the innocent and open mind of a child.
