La Reve Hotel is, like Le Parc, a working executive’s hotel. Pink and stuccoed on the outside, carpeted and cluttered in a worn, European way on the inside. The front desk in the dark little lobby had a line of beige wooden clockfaces giving he time in New York, Tokyto, London…. Two girls in their twenties worked the desk and gossiped as we checked in, trading badinage with a young man in overalls. Our room was not as fancy as Mom and Dad’s at the Parc. No view of green leaves, just some houses next door, and no balcony. There wsa the inevitable FAX machine, a sink with a bar cuboard and, weirdly, a working fireplace with a large mirror over it across from the bed. A small color tv was pushed to one side on a counter.

Dinner that night was at J and S’s house. Chinese take-out, the kind of Kung Pao chicken I like, with a dark, rich sauce loaded with sugar and lots of peanuts.

Dad held his grand-daughter, his eyes down, unable to take his eyes off her, looking happier and more tender than I have seen him in years. That sight alone was worth the whole trip.