And yet, she is glad to be here, or gladder than she would be elsewhere. The city is as lovely as she’d imagined. Lovelier even, a mash up of Lamorisse and Jeunet, and probably many more French films she has yet to see. And she’s not going to watch them now, when she can live them instead. Except she doesn’t. She turns everything she sees -the teetering spindly women ballasted by half-meter baguettes and heavy black boudin on strings, say, or the employment of canines as lunch dates, the determination of the stooped elderly as they drag their checkered grocery sacks, into yet chapter of a film, one with really lifelike camera work and endless reels…