When Karen Fawcett, publisher of BonjourParis, is in Washington, D.C., a strange thing happens. She becomes incredibly sentimental over Paris. Not that there aren’t wonderful things to do and see in the Nation’s Capital. But her heart simply doesn’t sing there. What does she miss? Stones, old stones.

Only Joe Lestrange would encounter a brass band on a Paris square giving their all in a Mother's Day performance of “Barbara Ann.” Imagine, 1960s American rock ’n’ roll being played in Paris by kids whose parents weren’t yet born when the Beach Boys’ cover of “Barbara Ann” topped out at number two on the charts. Here's how it all went down in Joe's Paris.

Things are puzzling for Joseph Lestrange. The Italian market, the butcher shop and the bakery are all closed up in the middle of the day, and right around the corner three pairs of little girl's shoes have been lined up neatly and abandoned. But every question has an answer which Joe finds and incidentally helps his fellow man.

Joseph Lestrange gets an earful about Aunt Rosalie, good Catholic and virgin, engaged to marry a very boring man. It was on the corner over there that she met a man who made an indecent proposal. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but it sounded more interesting than anything her fiancé ever said to her. So she said yes, they went to a hotel and made love.

Why he’s standing by the rear door of the ratty café makes no sense. That is where he has stopped to dance his tango or give his speech or simply to grind to a halt for the time being—and no place else. He could do worse. A few people walk down this quiet Paris street. The drunk holds out his hand to shake or to high-five, and most ignore him.

This is the best of all possible worlds. I’m sitting in my garden, but in Paris, not Provence. Everything is perfect; keeping the French garden beautiful costs neither effort nor centime. And then come nostalgic memories of travel to Provence every recent spring past. But not this year. Karen Fawcett on a new season of life.

My husband, Phil, and I happened to be in Paris in May 1995 when Jacques Chirac was inaugurated for his first term as President of France. We stood amidst the cheering French on the Champs-Elysées, thrilled with the pomp of the post-inaugural parade and joining in the shouting as the newly-installed president rode by in an open car, waving victoriously to his countrymen.

May 1st was the 23rd anniversary of the day I moved to Paris for a six-month gig. For most people, it would be a dream come true. When people ask me if I’d always dreamed of living in Paris, it’s easier to say yes, since it’s faster and more romantic...

Imagine that. A man playing a bassoon all by himself in the dark on an unbusy street in Paris. Who does that? Who solos, with no strings or other reeds or horns to keep him company, on the bassoon? You hear the violin in the street and the accordion, you hear the saxophone and the guitar, maybe a jugband with a washboard player, but never the bassoon.