It’s raining in the 9eme arrondissement, with winds so hard as they bounce between buildings the umbrellas of even the hardiest souls are useless or destroyed. Few paying customers have been drawn to the cafes along the rue Saint-Lazare, so the manager of one took pity on my drenched state and covered a bowl of hot soup for me to take back to my tarp-covered packing crate in an alley near where Giselle and I would pass an afternoon before my wife learned of us. Tomorrow, perhaps, the sun will shine, and I will wander along the Seine while contemplating the leap from bridge to water as a solution to my changed situation. For now, though, I’ve donned my other, dry clothes and surrounded the soup to my belly’s delight, so even the endless rain can’t dampen my spirits.