Today Terry and I went to Monmartre, which I like to call FranceLand, because it looks the way tourists expect Paris to look, and not much like the real Paris at all, with a creperie at every other door and souvenir shops in between. You have to dodge all the sketchy (pun intended) portrait artists who want to draw or paint you. There was a guy who cuts out your silhouette in a piece of paper who managed to entrap Terry and me. We said “non,” but he started cutting my profile anyway, saying “No obligation!” Then he said, “So you come to Paris, eh? Big love story, eh?” I said, “Oh yeah, big one,” while Terry said something like “I like boys” under his breath. “You drink the champagne?” “No,” I said, “he’s too cheap.” He finished my silhouette, which he offered for the low low price of 10 euros. “No,” we said. “Shit Americans!” he said.