continuing straight, towards the river, past the little bookshops and galleries, past that one corner of a building with ever-changing street art
past the ladurée and the floral perfume and soap store next to it, tropical scents wafting out no matter the weather
past more art galleries, filled with miniature shadowboxes, scenes of children at the louvre, or a perfect blue piece of pottery, glazed and crackled, art galleries that never seem to sell a piece and yet always stay in business, paying their astronomical left bank rents