In the Paris metro, I don’t read or listen to music because I want to observe and listen to the people around me. But during morning rush hour, standing so close to others, I cannot surreptitiously watch faces. So I look downward and observe feet. Always entertaining. The French wear beautiful shoes, men and women alike. One day my eye was drawn to a woman’s feet in a crowded metro car. She wore beautiful, pale silver-matte sandals with a one-inch-wide strap across the base of the toes and a loop of strap at the heel. She had the perfect shade of nail polish, though an unexpected choice: a rosy peachy sort of shimmery color. Gorgeous. As the crowd began to thin out, I glanced upward to see what outfit this lovely young creature would be wearing. A lovely tailored, but loose, gray dress. And she was at least 60 years old. Just a hint of makeup. Wrinkled but beautiful clear skin. Whitish gray hair. How fun it is to be an older woman in Paris. You get to have such flair and style.