Speaking of young painters, we have just made an astounding discovery. Remember it was Gus’s cousin who lured us to Paris in the first place. Well, it turns out that I have a relative here as well—a distant cousin. When we were about to leave for Paris my mother told me that we had family members who had settled there when the family left the turmoils in Eastern Europe. My grandfather came to America and my great-uncle’s family went to Paris. Mama had no current address for them but their last name would have been Goldfarb like ours. I asked at several synagogues but to no avail—in fact the Parisian Jews did not exactly extend the welcome mat. Well, I admit that I do not look like the good traditional Jewish woman, nor do I practice my religion, but it turned out that the cause of their caution had more to do with the current wave of anti-Semitism that has swept this city, culminating in the dreadful treatment of Captain Dreyfus—falsely imprisoned and shipped to Devil’s Island mainly because of his race.

Having heard this, we’re not sure how long we’ll stay, though of course among the more bohemian community of artists and writers, race, gender, or even appearance don’t matter a fig. Talent is all that counts. You’ll be amazed to learn that I was the first of us to have a talent acknowledged here. We went to a soiree and were each instructed to write a poem. I read mine with great trepidation but it was pronounced good. At this gathering I was instantly drawn to a young man with an interesting face and such soulful dark eyes—clearly also Jewish. We started to share information about our ancestry and lo and behold he turned out to be my long-lost distant cousin, Maxim Noah. Apparently his mother was a Goldfarb. His parents are dead, and he lives in a studio with artist friends up on the hill called Montmartre. And the poets I met have invited me to join their group. It seems that in this city poetry is as important as painting. Did you ever imagine that such a place could exist on earth? If it weren’t for the anti-Semitic sentiment and for missing our delightful godson Liam, we might never want to come home!

But I digress. As I mentioned, Maxim lives with some other young artists up in the rural part of Montmartre and invited us to visit him. “Primitive” is hardly the word to describe it, my dear. No heat, no running water, just a group of young men painting, creating, discussing. Maxim suggested that Gus and I take a place nearby, but I pointed out that we were no longer eighteen and that civilized New Yorkers needed heat and a daily bath.

But having finally made artistic connections in the city we wanted to move closer to the hub of the current art world. We have finally found a place of our own in that general area that suits our needs. Our previous lodging was in a more genteel area near the Seine—preferable in some ways but too far from the exciting world of the arts. What’s more the landlady was a fussy old bird who objected to the smell of paint and our late hours. So we have found what we consider a wonderful compromise … a top floor atelier on a street close to Pigalle. Not as primitive as the streets further up the hill and mercifully close to a station of the Métropolitain railway—yes, dear Molly, they have a perfectly fine working subway here, making travel across the city quick and easy. There are already three lines with more under construction.