They say it's good luck when you step in dog shit on the streets of Paris. I say it's good luck if you don't fall down, and it stays on the sole. But that's about the only drawback of strolling in the City of Lights. Paris was made for walking, and that's a good thing, since the taxi situation is so exasperating. You can't hail one—you have to go to a taxi stand, and the French are only slightly better than the Italians at forming a queue.

The Mrs. and I walked almost everywhere, enjoying the nice weather, the beautiful sky, the decoratively egoistic people. A lot of Americans have problems with the French ego, that attitude that's so on the surface. I don't. The night after consuming much wine at the oenophile's birthday reported on earlier, I dragged myself out of bed and to lunch at Fouquet's restaurant. It's a delightful place, with excellent food. Opened in 1901, it has sort of a spiffier, gourmet Sardi's vibe, as it has been a movie trade hangout since the days of Charlie Chaplin. The walls are covered with photographs of stars and directors, from Jean Cocteau to Catherine Deneuve.

I think I was the only guy in the place not wearing a tie. Most of the men were talking business and drinking serious bottles of wine. I needed to end my hangover, so I asked the waiter, "Avez vous Coca Cola?" He replied, "Yes, but it is no good."

It was snotty, but of course he was right.

"I need one," I said. He didn't even roll his eyes. The Coke appeared a few minutes later, and then there was excellent foie gras, smoked salmon, and Dover sole. A nice half bottle of Sancerre and the hangover was gone. But that kind of snottiness has something approaching charm. It says "our culture is strong."

I'm fascinated by Fouqet's, particularly because it is now part of a hotel called Fouquet's Barrière, and that hotel is responsible for one of the best pieces of architecture I've seen in a long time. I didn't know what it was, but I saw a building around the corner that simply knocked me out. It looked like a concrete casting of a typical Hausmann-era, nineteenth-century Paris building with contemporary windows poked into it. Which is exactly what it is. The Fouquet's hotel is one solid block, and where there was no charming building they simply installed one on the rue Bauchart and rue Vernet sides.

Created by the extraordinary "ecological architect" Edouard Francois, to me this building is the answer to all of the problems posed by contemporary architecture. It is about how yesterday and today can meet successfully. I love how the exterior mimics its neighbors in a modern texture while the windows are poked in almost randomly, responding to the hidden structure of the interiors.

I also love how the windows mirror the beautiful Parisian sky against a background of concrete.

I'm always fantasizing about where I would live in Paris. Later we strolled along the Seine on Avenue de New York. I thought that might be a fitting address, and there are some lovely buildings there near the Palais de Tokyo, which houses a great collection of contemporary art and a fun restaurant. And then I got an idea. I saw the Popeye anchored there against the quai. I wonder how much a boat like that would cost.