For just a few euros I bought a little painting. It’s the size of a postcard, so I mean little. A middle-aged woman was just sitting there on the sidewalk near the Louvre with a tiny paintbrush working on a piece while selling an array of others.

The one I bought is a cafe scene in bright, tropical colors. The name of the cafe as it is scrawled across the top is Chez L’Artiste. (Could I possibly resist that name? Please.) It already has a pleasant spot nestled among my books, a place of subtle prominence.

A sweet souvenir.