The first time I went to Paris (1997), we stayed on the rue de Rivoli, near the Hôtel de Ville. Our third story room overlooked a little square that hosted 4 restaurants. [Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! Scrape!] every morning, as the servers moved all the tables and chairs into place for lunch. [Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! Scrape!] every late night, as the servers removed and stacked all the furniture to clear the square. And for hours on end, it seemed, an Edith Piaf interpreter would stand bleating into her portable microphone, her vibrato rattling rapidly, as though she were singing into and through fan blades rotating on the “HI” setting. “Je ne regrette rien!” We didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream with vexation. It all formed a sort of sonic universe that always comes to mind and evokes nostalgic affection whenever I think of the Marais.