A cold morning in Paris. A run through the Tuileries, around the Louvre, through the Luxembourg Gardens. Then, after breakfast at the hotel and a brief stop at a Place Clichy thrift shop where I found a prize checkered shirt, a walk through this small cemetery in the 18eme. Nijinksy, Degas, Stendhal, Berlioz, Mme. Récamier, as well as hundreds of less-visited resting places, tended to by families rather than by fans. Then, unexpectedly, this. My beloved auteur. Was any filmmaker a better storyteller? The cyclamen told of another recent visitor, equally enamored. A few notes from admirers, a touching prayer from a student. I searched my pockets, found a card, placed it nearby. It started to snow.
Is that a potato chip resting there under "1984"? Reason I ask is that Truffaut was a famously sparse eater given to wolfing down deli style sandwiches between sips of black coffee. A bag of chips and a Coke would not be out of the question as a Truffaut dining experience. Of course, chips are traditionally fried. Unlike bread which is baked. Certain breads (which shall mercifully go unnamed) have been popularized in Japan and are recently finding a loyal (if not obsessed) following in the US.
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