For a few days, I’m here in the Old World, starting in Paris and then heading to Maastricht for the European Fine Art Fair next week and Amsterdam for the Frans Hals retrospective. Paris is on the verge of the summer Olympics, so the city, which is always lovely, seems to sparkle in look and mood. A restored Notre Dame opens in December after the terrible fire in 2019 gutted it and nearly toppled it.
Early in February, farmers and truckers clogged main roads into Paris, enraged by President Macron’s crackpot climate program. They hoped to show bloated plutocrats that they could put them on a diet of grass clippings. The government took steps to make them less enraged, and roads are open to deliveries of oysters. All in the cause of ensuring peace and delight as long as I’m here and, as far as the bloated bureaucrats are concerned, when the Olympics come to town. The French are unperturbed on the coming onslaught. The games start on July 28, on the eve of their traditional one-month summer vacation.






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