The distinctive click of the door as it locked was something I listened for.

I dashed out of my apartment to a small shop nearby-one of few open that Sunday morning, sixteen years ago. My morning attire of comfort casual was discordant with the impeccably dressed Parisian men and women strolling along, but no one seemed to notice.  With my purchase of envelopes in hand, I quickly retraced my steps back home. I reached for my keys, they were not in my pocket, but where I had left them, on the other side of my apartment door.

My boyfriend had gone skiing and wasn’t expected to return until late that evening. I descended the seven flights of stairs and rang the bell of Isabella, the concierge. She was not at home. Sunday she often spent with her family or friends.

I again stepped outside into the chilly morning, aware of the darkening clouds. I knew none of my friends’ phone numbers and asking my neighbors if I could hang around all day did not seem like a great idea.

I bought a hearty sandwich from a boulangerie with about six dollars worth of francs to spare. At some point Eureka, a film, came to mind. I had wanted to see it, but had been dissuaded by it’s more than three and one-half hour running time . It was playing near the Centre Pompidou about an hour’s walk away and the matinee price was one I could afford.

Eureka was an extraordinary film. I enjoyed it immeasurably, but the warm, cozy seat I nestled in for hours undoubtedly added to its appeal.