The photos stirred up my latent fantasies of being a petite Frenchy for a month or two--doing nothing but drinking vin rouge and writing about the quirky things Parisians do and say in the public places I'd stealthily observe them, like bus stops and park benches. My intermediate French language barrier would ensure mild alienation and thus an ability to feel completely at ease in taking notes while staring at strangers.
I would live in an exorbitantly-priced closet with a view of the Sienne; eat fresh nutella crepes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and stroll around listening to the Amelie soundtrack on my 'pod as though I were starring in my own petite scene. I'd probably try to find an old, bitter, but quirky and ultimately lovable, artichoke vendor like the one in the movie; but I wouldn’t be able to converse with him (or anyone) without sounding awkward. That’s fine though, because Paris would be lovely for exploring life as a hermit.