I thought Madeline lived in a neighborhood somewhere near me. That's because the ubiquitous fields of ivy covered both our landscapes. Took me a little while to figure out Paris was not in Brooklyn or above 14th Street.
In later years, an explosion of potato plants and coleuses and lots of lawn-like patches appeared as the city transformed into a manicured and remodeled visiting destination and/or exclusive enclave. Or whatever kind of locale needed constant landscaping.
I didn't realize what I had missed all these years until yesterday, when I opened my eyes and saw a rolling stretch of ivy. I was back in the soft, cool shade of wishing I could visit Madeline.
