I hung my few clothes in the old armoire, set up my laptop on the desk, checked a few e-mails and wrote a few notes about my surroundings. A small glass of mer lot would be tonight's only indulgence. I was exhausted from traveling across the UK and France via Eurostar and Metro and needed to sleep. The bed might have been old and the springs might have creaked when I tossed and turned in the night, but the sheets that Mme. Philippe had provided were pure white linen, scented with the relaxing aroma of French lavender. I slipped into my favorite negligee and was asleep within seconds, drifting off to the sound of voices from the rooms either side and below and of music wafting in from the street.

At about four a.m. the strong smell of cigarette smoke woke me briefly. I sat up in bed, my breasts spilling out of my negligee. I wrinkled my nose and thought about getting up to complain, but I was so tired that I fell asleep again almost immediately. The dreams that followed were of smoke trails and mysterious foreign voices making the unmistakable sound of two people having really, really good sex. I woke up in the morning with sticky moisture between my legs and a musky smell on my fingers. I must have been touching myself in my sleep.

I spent the next day exploring my new locale, browsing flea markets and shopping for bread, cheese, and wine. I knocked on the doors of the other people in my building. My neighbors were a friendly, artistic bunch, and I met all of them except for those in the room directly beneath mine. None of the people I introduced myself to seemed quite sure of who occupied that room. Afterward I had lunch in a cafe and came home again to write.