Careful research (Google) had turned up a number of pool halls in Paris, including some in glorious high-ceiling rooms with ornate chandeliers. However, the only ones I could actually find were a bit less impressive. Drawing in the busy atrium of the Louvre helped assuage my disappointment.

Traveling alone in a country where I speak only enough of the language to get by results in conversations within my drawings. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but reading it later - years later, in this case - brings back a bit of the loneliness as well as the memories of the moments.

My earlier journals were more densely packed with images and words than today, probably because I could spend all day drawing. Nowadays, I draw in spurts.

I suspect it was while drawing these that I remembered why I hadn't drawn them before. That's a LOT of detail to capture with line, even if your cheeks aren't slowly going numb.