Will Czechoslovakians or turtles be born from your ashes?

Will your mouth kiss carnations
with other, imminent lips?

But do you know from where death
comes, from above or from below?

From microbes or walls,
from wars or winter?

From The Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda

Two points from last night's performance of Mozart's opera Idamante, by Les Arts Florrisant, a well received interpretation which was sold out when I tried to see it in New York.

1. I was reminded that the ushers at Le Theatre Des Champs Elysees, a magnificent hall at the Tuileries end of the great avenue, ask for tips if they show you a seat. I know enough to waive them off now, since I've been to the place often, but does anyone know somewhere else where this happens? It's certainly not true anywhere in New York, to my knowledge.

2. I had to get to the concert hall early because I was waiting for cheaper last minute tickets (a frequent occupation for me over here, because, well, I'm still a little cheap). Getting there early also means a wait until the concert starts, so I went off in search of a cafe. An expresso (the standard drink) at the first place I ran into was 3.50 euros, well above the going rate in Paris of 2.20. So I walked literally 30 yards away and found a cafe at the market rate. Nothing could better explain what's really going on when you sit down at a Parisian cafe. You're renting space rather than buying food, and even if the second place was on the ultra chic George V, the first had a view of the Tour Effeil. Done.