On 9/11, Marion and I were in Paris at the Hotel Regina on Rue St. Honore. Regina is a lovely hotel on the right bank of the Seine, across the street from the Louvre with a delightful view of the Eiffel Tower, which was decorated with a thousand lights to honor the millennium.
We had completed shooting a difficult film, Paradise Lost, in Puerto Rico and were in our second week, trying to recuperate. Room service brought us the most delicious French breakfast and the most glorious bouquet of red and yellow roses. They also brought our daily Le Figaro. Marion, who was fluent in French was teaching me, le mots du jour, words of the day, which I would use repeatedly with the concierge, the Moroccan fruit seller and anyone else who would listen.
Our film had turned out well, and Marion was feeling good enough to go the Tales of Hoffman ballet, that we both knew and loved. It was a blissful time.
Then, we turned on the TV.