When you go to Cortázar's grave you have to bring something. I thought about leaving a motivational note or a little stone, a Metro Card or a Lonely Planet guide. Nat didn't weigh in, he just munched on a piece of French bread. In the end I couldn't figure anything out and it started to rain.
On this trip we learned that Nat and French bread are soul mates. You can take the kid anywhere in Paris in any weather condition and if he has a piece of bread, he's fine. No bread, another story entirely. Though Nat likes French bread, he dislikes gendarmes, and dislikes French prison yet more.
In fairness to my son (and for the benefit of my fellow travelers) I should also note that, contrary to the spirit of family bonding, Napoleon III's bed is no longer suitable for use as a changing table, nor is his chamber pot intended for use by the general public.
Confinement allowed for meditation. Upon our release it struck me that I could leave a ball of yarn on JC's grave. Though we spent our remaining week wandering Paris, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, on our last day, L. took us to the Montparnasse Monoprix. In place of yarn I could only find a spool of thread, but it would have to suffice. Nat selected a pan viennoise.
When we got back to the gravesite I laid the spool on the grave. Nat had eaten most of the viennoise but he threw down the piece he had left, in case our man was hungry.
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