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“Excuse me. Do you know where Degas is?”
I heard a voice ask me this in English while wandering around the Montmartre cemetery. I was in the city alone, taking a quick vacation from the bleak, grey German winter back in Berlin. It was my first time in the French capital, but I felt an intuitive kinship with the city. I had already spent the day meandering along its narrow streets and alleys, gazing up at the ivory-coloured buildings that line the boulevards.
